


Arithmetic of Memory

by amaruuk



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 01:07:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 39,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29909829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaruuk/pseuds/amaruuk
Summary: After the failed End Time, Aziraphale and Crowley meet for the first time in St James's Park. They share an immediate and mutual attraction. As they become friends, they discover that they both have unexplainable gaps in their memories. What do they risk by becoming friends—and possibly more?Aziraphale freed his hands and laid them flat against Crowley's chest. "Angels most definitely do not have sex." He licked his lips. "With humans."Unable to believe what he had just heard, Crowley stopped breathing. And then he swallowed hard. "Demons, then?"Aziraphale glanced away and then back, as if he could not resist. "Unlikely.""No?" Crowley took a half step back. "You do have all the bits?""Of course I do!" Aziraphale retorted, with not a little outrage. "Really—!"But that's when Crowley kissed him.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 60





	Arithmetic of Memory

The morning was cold, grey, and damp. The swirling breeze, ghosting between the buildings, stole into every crease and fold, even through the tightly knitted wool of Crowley's scarf. It was November, and this day, like so many that had recently preceded it, was bitter. At least, he thought, as he crossed the road and entered the park's grounds, it wasn't raining. Still, he wondered what compulsion had driven him outside, and to this park, of all places.

He could have gone to the cinema. It was warm there. Or a coffee shop, a toasty space for loitering over a latte while contemplating mischief upon those wastrel humans who thought coffee was a basic food group. Not that he had perpetrated much mischief of late. His heart just hadn't been in it. Or he could have stayed home and watched the morning shows on the telly, as he usually did. There was even a bookshop— He gave his head a shake. When did he willingly visit bookshops? He frowned hard and glared down the unwinding length of the path, oblivious to the people who suddenly stepped away and afforded him a wide berth.

It had been like this for weeks, ever since the End Time. The End Time that had failed because Adam Young had shouted an anguished renunciation of Satan himself, preferring his humanity over his omnipotent, satanic heritage. And then he had reset the world. 

Actually it had been like this only since a different day—two weeks _after_ that madness at the airbase—when Crowley had awakened with his memory broken. Well, not broken, exactly. He knew who he was and his purpose in life, how to dress and not spill his whiskey. But, had he been human he would have suspected—feared—a stroke, or a brain tumor, or the consequence of an injury that he … didn't remember suffering. He most certainly was not human, and therefore it couldn't have been any of those afflictions. Which left tampering, probably by Beelzebub, if he had to guess. Hell's upper class—Lucifer, Satan—couldn't be bothered messing with him. His sudden and annoyingly selective loss of memory had to be Beelzebub's doing. Or, maybe, however unlikely, the Almighty. But there was upper class and there was UPPER class, and he really couldn't see it. Unless she, too, had been looking forward to the war that would have literally ended all wars. And humanity, and the Earth, and the life he lived as a human.

Both Beelzebub and the Lord were good at crafting punishments. But it was probably Beelzebub who had arranged his kidnapping. Who else would have handed him over to Gabriel, the Archangel, the day after the Great War was no longer a thing? Gabriel, who, weirdly, had tried to feed him to hellfire, and surely must have known better. The Almighty surely would have been more competent—and decisively lethal. But his memory of that incident was incomplete and deeply fuzzy, and poking at it for any length of time made his head hurt.

Whole swathes of memory were unaffected, crisp and clear as the moment of their happening. But others were veiled, as if by an obnoxiously sentient mist, revealing only vague outlines of places, of people. He hated that mist, he hated that his mind had been interfered with, he hated that he didn't know what it was that he no longer knew.

But Crowley had always been philosophical about adversity and its close cousin, pain. There was no point belaboring his new reality. The Bentley was back, better than before—he had not forgotten that excruciating moment when, engulfed by flames, it had exploded. He still had his flat and his plants. More importantly, he had retained his powers and gained a seemingly unlimited autonomy. He had yet to encounter other demons, and no new instructions had erupted out of his electronics. It seemed that he was a free man. Nearly two months on, he had adjusted perfectly well. Perfectly-ish. So what, if aspects of his life were missing? 

Which, of course, was why he was walking into the park on this miserable day, driven out of his cozy flat, searching for something that was missing. Whatever it was, it had been important. It was a brooding ache beneath his breastbone, a raw emotion with no source, a hollowness that no amount of morning telly or the nearest cinema could fill. Worst of all, he didn't know if he would recognize it, if he found it.

His anger increased as he stalked along the path. He didn't even like parks. Too many trees, too many people and their animals—too much air, for Satan's sake. He liked closed-in places, dark places, warm places. An argument could be made that it was dark under the trees, which were heavy with last night's rain and this morning's dew—but warm it most certainly was not. But while there were not that many people out, there were sufficient numbers to raise the prospect of an enjoyably unpleasant encounter. In fact, he was spoiling for a fight, or at least a way to vent his anger. Maybe he just needed a place where he could scream his rage.

Someone else was doing exactly that. A small child had met with parental disapproval after throwing something at the ducks. His aim was poor and the ducks were reasonably wise to his kind, but his mother had removed the small bag of treats from his hand and placed it on the grass in front of the rail. With impressive gentleness, she lifted the child into her arms and carried him away, as he stared over her shoulder and shrieked. Crowley, his ears ringing, considered showing him his snakehead. But voices were audible from around the tree-lined curve. Sighing, he stepped closer to the rail to pick up the small bag. Peas. He ferreted one out and bit into it. Definitely peas. He thew a few to the ducks, which were already waiting hopefully. Back in his day, it had been stale bread.

The thought arrested him. His hand, already armed with another batch of peas, hung mid-air. The ducks watched as if mesmerized, their mingled drab and iridescent heads swinging back and forth as they anxiously anticipated what he would do. It took a moment, but he remembered what he was about and completed the offering. While the throng of ducks fell into a frenzy, he resumed his walk, more slowly now.

He used to feed the ducks?

Crowley tried to peel back the shrouds concealing his damaged memories by sheer force of will. This—this!—was the sort of thing Beelzebub would allow to break through. What harm could there be in discovering that he had fed ducks in the park? It was just perverse enough to cause distraction and maddening frustration. He clenched his teeth and walked on, his gaze constantly raking the patches of open space in front of the railing. If he had visited _this_ park to feed the ducks, wouldn't he recognize _where_ he had fed them?

His hopes faded as he went. Nothing stood out. He stolidly circled almost the entire lake without finding anything familiar. He was bitterly accepting that this was simply something Beelzebub would have conjured for him, too: the utterly useless task of trying to connect a place to an utterly useless memory. What was he thinking?

But then he saw that he was back at the spot where the child had thrown a tantrum. There was someone else there, now, but Crowley ignored him as he stepped up to the rail. The ducks were intent upon the treats the man was feeding them, but Crowley was blind to their antics, the splashing, the squawks. For he was looking out over the lake, at the lie of the land, at the buildings in the distance, at the trees and benches lining the path on the opposite side, which he had not bothered to do before. Because this was the spot. He _remembered_ this view.

"Sorry, my dears," the man next to him said. "That's the last of it."

"Here." Crowley half-turned and thrust the small plastic bag toward him.

"Oh!" 

Crowley glanced at him as the other man uncertainly accepted the bag of peas from his palm. And then he looked again, a pointed brow rising above the rim of his dark glasses as he took in the strange figure beside him. The man offered a reserved smile and said, "Thank you," before carrying on feeding the raucous audience. He seemed unfazed by Crowley's scrutiny, which was, even for Crowley, intense to the point of rudeness.

But the man was something to behold. He was sweetly handsome with a tidy mouth and wide eyes, a narrow upturned nose, and cherubic cheeks. His hair was purest white, a combination of short tufts and curls. His posture was regimentally upright and the hand that had taken the bag, manicured and soft. Despite his good looks, it was his manner of dress that drew the eye. His cream-colored frock coat would have been the height of fashion in the days of Victoria, the tan waistcoat with attached timepiece equally antiquated. The relaxed cut of his trousers was unlike anything Crowley had seen in several decades. His cleanly tailored shirt was a surprisingly pleasing shade of blue. But the large tartan bow tied around the collar was—or should have been—ridiculous. Somehow, it wasn't. It went with the outfit the way the man's regal carriage and mannered movements suited him exactly. All of this Crowley took in in a single sweeping look. _A docent_ , he decided, jarred out of his brooding, dressed for a role. 

If he was surprised to find himself the focus of the demon's attention, the man did not acknowledge it. "Thank you, again," he said, and his mellifluous voice managed to convey both courtesy and warmth. He produced that same quick, impersonal smile and swung around on his heel in the direction of the path. As he strode off, he dropped the empty bag into the appropriate bin. Crowley watched him disappear under the trees, realizing only then what, in his preoccupation with the man's appearance, he had failed to notice.

The man was much more than a man. In fact, he was an angel.

* * *

Crowley spent the next few days determinedly refusing to reflect on his experience in the park. The surfacing of a lost memory—a memory with no significance that he could discern—had paled in comparison to his "meeting" with the angel at the railing. Weirdly, he could not get him out of his mind. His first inclination had been to go back to the park the following day in the hope of seeing him again. Instead, he had watched a film in a nearby cinema that had left no impression on him at all. The popcorn, however, had been fresh, crunchy, and perfectly salted. He had taken the Bentley to the coast and bought a 99 on the pier. The cold had cut through his jacket like a thousand tiny knives, and the cone had ended in a bin. He had spent a day in front of the telly, with a trio of bottles of 25-year-old Talisker at his elbow. He didn't recall much about that day.

Four days after an unexplained compulsion had taken him to the park, he sobered up, brought his hair under control, and took himself to the park again. He carried the feeble heat of the morning sun on his shoulders, and though his black jacket absorbed some of its warmth, the back of his neck, even with the collar turned up, was chilled. Muttering a number of choice epithets at himself under his breath, he doggedly walked around the lake. The angel was not there.

Crowley slowed his pace and circled the lake again. Only a few hardy humans were in the park, and most of them were huddled inside their jackets and coats and moving quickly. He heard passing comments about the weather, the state of the country, the abysmal impending collapse of the world. A dog, off lead, stopped to sniff his shoes. He said a single word and it spun around and, with a startled yelp, took off at a run into the trees. Its owner, shouting the animal's name, took chase while fellow path walkers made outraged comments about the beast being off lead.

On his third round, Crowley spotted him. The pure white hair shone in the sunlight, brighter even than the sun's rays could account for. He was seated on a bench on the south side of the lake, a newspaper held open in front of him. Crowley quickened his step, snatched a copy of _Metro_ out of a bin, and kept an eye on him until trees and the path hid him from his view. He sighed relief when he came to the eastern end and saw that he was still there.

The sun faded behind the clouds and rain began to fall. Crowley folded the tabloid under his arm to protect it. He leaned forward and hunched his shoulders. The first drops hit the back of his neck—he hated that!—and dribbled down the inside of his collar, sending shivers through his entire body. Cold and wet—two of his most disliked conditions. Many of the humans abandoned the path to find cover under the canopy of nearby plane trees, and Crowley would have loved to join them. But he stubbornly continued, and as he neared the bench where the angel still sat, he slowed. 

The angel, untouched by the rain, paid him no mind as Crowley walked past him to claim the other end of the bench. He grimaced slightly at the droplets that rose like blisters from the seat slats. But as he turned to sit, the white head came up, and he found himself the focus of a cautious stare.

Crowley hesitated. "May I?" he asked, even though it wasn't really needed. The benches were freely available to all.

The angel's features went smooth. "Of course." He gestured towards the seat and returned to his newspaper.

Crowley dropped a hand to swipe off the worst of the moisture and was pleasantly surprised to find it already gone and the seat dry. Murmuring a thanks, he lowered himself and settled, letting his legs sprawl wide—though he was careful not to trespass on the angel's space. He made a show of snapping open his own paper.

The squall passed quickly. As others walked by in drenched misery, Crowley wordlessly accepted the special privilege of being in the angel's rain shadow; for the protection from the wet extended to him as well—even his hair was dry and his quiff stood proud. Not that he understood the kindness. The angel, unless he were spectacularly obtuse, must know that Crowley was a demon. But he said nothing, and neither did Crowley.

The public wandered past, the sun came out, a pale rainbow briefly painted the sky, clouds turned the day cold, and another squall dropped icy moisture. In all that time, neither of them spoke, both committed to their papers. Of course, nothing in the _Metro_ penetrated his thoughts. He was proud of it, after a fashion—after all, he had been the source of its creation. And, contradictorily, whenever he saw it heaped inside bins, blowing along the road, or used for packing, he felt especially pleased. What was there not to be proud of? As he had told Beelzebub at the time, it represented so much that was bad: the destruction of the world's forests, waste, pollution, and the ruination of minds. One of his better efforts, actually. She had agreed, and he had received a commendation. But he was aware of the angel's sidelong looks, and for the first time he felt something that squirmed like shame.

After a third squall, the angel rose, nodded curtly in Crowley's direction, and walked away. He folded his copy of the _Celestial Observer_ and stowed it inside his jacket as he went.

Crowley watched him go. The angel moved with a strange mixture of assurance (head held high, shoulders squared and pinned back) and insecurity (hands clasped together at his waist, gaze watchful and uneasy). Crowley crazily wanted to challenge that assurance as well as soothe his insecurity. He could not recall ever feeling such a conundrum of emotions, and certainly not because of another being.

When the angel was no longer visible, Crowley left the bench and strode out of the park, dumping the tabloid in the first bin he came to. Was it possible he was _attracted_ to the angel? That was simply outlandish, not to mention stupid. Even if he thought that the case, no way in Heaven would the angel reciprocate his interest. But he could not deny that there was a fascination. Waiting at a light, Crowley shook his head hard. He was just bored. And this was a waste of his time.

His mood grew dark, dark enough for humans to veer away as he passed. There was a new film at the cinema; he would go tomorrow. He would shake off this unseemly obsession and get on with his life. Back at his flat, he uncorked a bottle of red and took it into the lounge. With his feet propped up on the coffee table, he switched on the telly and took a swig from the bottle. As the voices of the afternoon chat shows washed over him, he turned toward the windows and sightlessly stared out.

The angel had shielded him from the rain.

* * *

The angel didn't show the following day. Crowley sat in the cold and damp with a copy of a coffee-stained tabloid on his lap. He castigated himself for an idiot, yet still he waited. When the noon hour had come and gone—far past the time he had encountered him before—Crowley obdurately waited another hour. Conceding defeat was galling. Worse, it was depressing. On his way out of the park he threw away the tabloid and the small white bag that contained a pastry—his thanks for the angel's kindness. In a way he was grateful that the angel had not appeared. He would have felt a fool offering it to him.

* * *

The next day went much as the first, including the tabloid (this one smudged with cigarette ash) and the pastry. Both ended up in the bin as Crowley stalked out of the park. He was an idiot.

* * *

Something happened on the morning of the third day, a sea change that occurred in Crowley's thinking. He wanted to see the angel again, it was true. But he also realized that going to the park had taken him out of his funk—at the risk of putting him into a different one, also true. He had been so taken with this quixotic adventure that he had given very little thought to the fact that his memories had been trifled with.

So, on that morning, with something like a spring in his step, Crowley purchased a small packet of frozen peas at a Tesco Express and yet another pastry at a nearby patisserie. Wonder of wonders, the sun was shining, and the air was almost warm. Of course the park was bustling with walkers, joggers, and a few determined tourists. He found his favored spot at the railing occupied. A burst of demonic displeasure, psychically boosted, took care of that, and the older woman who had been happily tossing food to the ducks, removed herself immediately.

The lake's denizens, at first disappointed that their admirers had deserted them, cast doubtful beady eyes toward him. But when they spied the picture of peas on the outside of the packet, they began to push forward and to clamor. Crowley used his teeth to make a tiny rip in the plastic and widened it with a finger. 

It was calming, standing there and tossing small handfuls to the birds. Their appreciation was unbounded, and he rather enjoyed the raucousness of it. The pouch was nearly empty when the angel stepped up next to him. Crowley glanced around. The angel met his eyes.

"Demon," the angel said.

"Angel," Crowley replied.

With that, they resumed their usual silence. Inside, Crowley's bones seemed to have been lit on fire and his brain to have short-circuited. He congratulated himself on appearing normal—normal enough to pass, anyway—and when he emptied the packet, he crushed it in his palm, gave the angel a friendly look, and walked away—the hardest thing he had done in some decades.

But he went no farther than the bench he had come to think of as theirs, which was occupied by a couple of boisterous youths. Another tiny demonic nudge and they leapt up, rubbing their bottoms, and shot alarmed looks back at the seat as they fled.

Crowley pulled out his copy of the _Infernal Times_ and perused the front page. He knew better than to believe ninety percent of it, so skimmed it merely for entertainment value. The angel's shadow fell across him a very few minutes later as he sat next to him. When he spoke, Crowley welcomed the excuse to study him without having to conceal his interest.

"You didn't have to do that," the angel said with quiet disapproval. 

He could have pretended not to know what he was referring to, but chose instead to be charmingly incorrigible. "They're late for class anyway," Crowley said with a half-smile.

The angel considered the retreating backs of the two boys, who were still walking oddly. "Are they?"

"Probably."

"Hm." He didn't say anything else, but Crowley did not imagine the vaguely critical—and curious—assessment the angel gave him out of the corner of his eyes. He was filled with a ridiculous sense of triumph. _Play it cool_ , he told himself. And then he remembered the pastry bag at his side. He was instantly assailed with doubt. But the angel had been nice to him. Why shouldn't he be nice back?

So he picked it up and held it out to the angel. "I got this for you," he said straightforwardly. "For giving me shelter the other day."

"Oh." The angel's brows went up. As he looked from the bag to Crowley, his wariness seemed to evaporate. "Oh," he said again, and tentatively accepted Crowley's gift. "That was very thoughtful of you." And he smiled, a full-on smile that not only displayed perfect teeth and shining eyes, but somehow reached into Crowley's chest and made his heart flutter.

Crowley could think of nothing to say, but he did, thankfully, remember what he had planned. As the angel peeled the top of the bag open and peered inside, Crowley reached out. The angel watched him as, with the tip of a finger, Crowley touched the bottom of the bag. A small tendril of scented steam rose up and the angel inhaled with obvious pleasure. " _Lovely_ ," he murmured. Carefully, he raised the now warm crepe out of the folds of paper and delivered it delicately to his mouth.

Crowley watched him take his first bite. The angel made a low sound, a cross between a moan and a sigh, as he bit and slowly chewed. "Very nice," he said, his voice dropping a register as he spoke. 

For a few seconds, Crowley could think of nothing more to say or do. So he bent his head studiously over his newspaper, struggling ineptly at first to get it to fold out properly. His fingers and thumbs seemed incapable of obeying him, and perhaps that was because his attention was wholly on the angel beside him. It took him a while to eat the crepe, and he seemed to savor every bite, though he kept the appreciative sounds to himself after that first taste. Eventually, he wiped his mouth free of crumbs with the serviette tucked at the bottom of the bag, compressed everything into a tidy square, and tucked it discreetly alongside his outer thigh.

Crowley pretended to be immersed in his newspaper. He wanted to say something, anything, to which the angel might respond. But he dared not overstep. He was grateful when he turned to Crowley and said, "That really was not necessary. But it was delicious." Crowley gravely nodded, said, "Good," in a choked voice, and went on pretending.

Smiling to himself—Crowley could just see him without overtly turning his head—the angel slid his own reading material out of an inside pocket, and began to read.

As the park jostled with the constant motion of walkers of all sizes, prams, pets, and creatures native to its grounds, Crowley made a game of cataloging what he could about the angel. His voice was warm with rich timbre as he hummed very quietly to himself. His posture was impeccable, even when sitting: head held high, shoulders back, feet together. Except for the occasional shifting of position that Crowley could only describe as a wiggle, he was a restful companion. And he smelled good, a combination of subtle cologne and his own faint musk. Crowley savored those instants when the breeze, slight as it was, carried his scent to him. The tops of his trousers legs, loose when standing, were snug while sitting. Crowley's mouth went dry at the thought of what his thighs might look like unclothed. His brain stuttered. The angel's hands! He could safely contemplate his hands, which were squared off, with sturdy fingers, the latter obviously well cared for, nails expertly trimmed and buffed to shine. He wore a gold ring on the little finger of his right hand.

Crowley forced himself to get a grip. Swallowing hard, he decided it was time to bring his game, harmless though it was, to an end, even though they had been sitting together not nearly long enough. He folded the paper and climbed to his full height. Casting a quick look down at the angel, he said, "Good day, angel."

The shadow of a frown flitted across the angel's brow as he looked up—could that be disappointment?—but he replied graciously, "Good day, demon." He returned his attention to the _Celestial Observer_.

Crowley hesitated for no more than a second, though the temptation to sit back down was almost overpowering. Instead, he headed down the path toward the palace entrance where he had come in. Rather than leave the park, however, he veered into the grounds and went behind a tall plane tree that offered a view of those entering and, far more importantly, exiting the park. It was ancient and very wide at its base, capable of providing cover for three or more demons as svelte as he.

He was glad he had moved with such alacrity when, a scant moment later, the angel appeared, hands clasped before him and lines between his brows. Crowley's heart squeezed at the thought that the angel had cut short his time in the park because of him. But with a patience not native to him, he waited until the angel had passed the dormant flowering cabbage outside the gate and struck off down The Mall.

It was fairly easy tracking him from inside the park—that shock of white hair was visible even at a distance. When he crossed from The Mall onto Marlborough Road, however, Crowley was grateful that the angel had left by the Africa gate. The Marlborough gate surely would have been more convenient, presuming he had come from that direction to begin with. Tourists were thin on the ground, and the traffic on the pavement provided less in the way of protective coloration. So he kept well behind to avoid being spotted. Not that the angel displayed any interest regarding his surroundings. He purposefully walked street after street, waiting patiently at lights, and blended in with the crowd as they all poured across each road. 

For a short while, Crowley thought that Mayfair might be his destination, until he jogged north and then east. There were more walkers there and, inevitably, more tourists, so Crowley gave himself leave to inch a little closer. He grew careless, and almost revealed himself when the angel stopped at a sushi bar in Soho, idly scanning those around him and his surroundings. Crowley nearly folded himself in half to drop behind the human in front of him, using the much shorter woman as a screen. Londoners, who were used to eccentricity on their pavements, simply moved around him with the graceful fluidity of a school of fish changing direction, although their commentary was tart and to the point.

When Crowley finally righted himself, the angel was no longer in sight, and he hoped to Hell that the creature was inside the sushi restaurant and not lost to him on one of the narrow side streets. He slowed his pace and crossed the road, just to give himself some maneuvering space.

Trying to appear casual and not at all as if he were loitering, he pulled out his phone and pretended to check his messages. It was still a sore point that he'd had to buy a new one, right around the time of his memory loss. He had no doubt that there had been phone numbers, possibly even photos, that sight of which would have awakened his memory. They hadn't even existed in a backup on the cloud—he had checked, hoping against hope that whoever was responsible was too technologically challenged to even know of such things.

Every few seconds he scoped out the front of the restaurant and the pavement in all directions, stoical in his expectation that he would be waiting for an hour or more, but taking care lest the angel reappear unexpectedly. During one such sweep, his eye was caught by a bookshop at the end of the street. It stood with its entrance facing the corner, and there was something about it— Just then the door to the restaurant swung open, and the angel stepped out, a takeaway bag in hand. Crowley's heart soared as he shrank into a doorway with his back to the street. When he peered out a few seconds later, he saw the angel striding along the pavement, takeaway bag swinging. He went up to the bookshop and stepped inside.

Crowley smiled to himself. The angel, however unlikely, must work there. He certainly would not be allowed to take any food inside otherwise. He went a little farther down the street. A coffee shop, about four doors down on the opposite side of the road, with a seat next to the window, gave him the perfect hide. He ordered a pot of tea and settled down to wait.

* * *

Throughout the remainder of that day, Crowley paid for another pot of tea, two sandwiches, four small desserts, and five packets of crisps. The coffee shop catered for students and tourists needing access to WiFi, with the understanding that they could stay indefinitely so long as they continued to purchase something. With the exception of the pots of tea, everything else went to the grateful but bemused students and tourists. He scoured the _Infernal Times_ from first page to last, several times.

At three-thirty, on the opposite side of the road, a flurry of people came out of the shop. As they tidied their jackets and heaved backpacks and purses onto their shoulders, the lights went out inside. A ghostly hand appeared at the window to flip the _Open_ sign over, so that it read _Closed_. Crowley perked up, assuming that the angel would reappear at last. His hopes flagged, though, as minutes crawled into another hour, and yet another. The door to the shop remained obstinately closed. The angel did not come out.

Was it possible that he _lived_ there? That he might even be the owner? Crowley left the thought unpursued, rejecting out of hand the idea that any supernatural being would want to own a business. They needed to be free to travel, to do whatever was required for the job. He hadn't even puzzled out why he himself owned a flat and had lived in London for centuries. It seemed counterintuitive, but it was one of those pieces of information that was tied to his forbidden memory, and therefore locked to him.

It was time for Crowley to leave; the coffee shop was closing. He nodded his thanks to the young woman who had been working the till and dropped a tenner on the counter in front of her. It wasn't in his nature to tip, but she had been friendly and tolerant, not only of him but of everyone who had come in. She called out her thanks as he strode out into the dark, frowning to himself. Why in Heaven should he want to be nice?

Under cover of night, he made his way across the street, dodging cars and wincing at the painful brightness of their headlamps. With his phone at the ready, he hurried past the front of the shop, barely stopping as he snapped a picture of the store hours. He tucked his phone away, had a quick glimpse at the inside of the shop—he saw no one—and continued down the road.

* * *

Crowley read through the store hours for the umpteenth time. Whoever had devised them had a twisted sense of humor. According to this, the shop opened most days at nine-thirty or ten in the morning—except for when it didn't. And it closed most days, as it had today, at three-thirty in the afternoon—except for when it didn't. It was a masterpiece of whimsy and a passive-aggressive rejection of business norms. And it helped Crowley not at all. He tried to recall whether his meetings with the angel had been mid- or late-morning. Mid-ish to late-ish, he thought. And he had seen him on days when he was meant to be at the bookshop, according to this. But the sign also said, "On days that I am not in, the shop will remain closed." Which made perfect sense. 

He had followed the angel home—if the bookshop was indeed his home—in order not to lose him. Otherwise, there had been no pattern to the days they had met. He was afraid he had over-relied on chance already and it was certain to go against him, probably sooner than later. He didn't know the angel's name, or for certain where he lived. He had hoped— Crowley tossed the phone onto the coffee table. Folding his arms across his chest, he stretched out on his sofa and scowled at the ceiling. 

What, exactly, was he doing?

There was no future for him with this angel. He was a demon. They were enemies, had been since The Fall. They had been polite to each other, maybe a little more than polite. But being attracted to an angel was the height of insanity. If he tried to get to know him better, to become his friend, to become his— Well, losing his memory would likely be the least of it. He'd find himself in one of Hell's deepest pits digging coal for the furnaces faster than he could heat a single pastry in a paper bag.

And yet—

Crowley closed his eyes and thought about him, his angel. Despite having looked him full in the face no more than a couple of times, he could picture him clearly. The shape of his lips with its reluctant smile, the curve of his chin, the sweep of his eyelashes and the brilliance of his eyes, the sunlit curls that called for his touch. He remembered his voice, a rich, velvety voice, and warm. And he knew that he wasn't going to let this go. Whatever it was that called to him, he couldn't seem to refuse it.

But he could try to be smart about it. Seeking him out had been a mistake. He could see that now. Crowley tried to ignore a sudden twinge in his chest. Rubbing his sternum, he pushed on with this thinking. He could watch him from afar. At least at first. He could follow him from place to place, he could learn his habits, he could discover how the angel lived his life—outside the park and the ducks—and he could amass enough of that information to use it to his advantage. Beelzebub would approve of that. She would assume that Crowley was setting him up for seduction, or maybe just a little heartbreak.

But what would Crowley really be setting him up for? He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. The strangest sensation flooded that space where the twinge had been. No. He wasn't going to set him up. Nor was he going to try to seduce him. Crowley snorted softly to himself. With sudden harsh clarity, he realized that he could never knowingly cause the angel pain.

Because, despite everything sane and rational, and the fact that he had seen him all of three times—and only twice exchanged words—he might actually be falling in love with him.

* * *

Dawn came late this time of year. Crowley, who loved his sleep, was up well before the sun. It was going to be another clear morning with rain later—or so said the gang on the morning show. Despite his love of sleep, he had not rested at all. He stood now in the kitchen, pouring several bottles of recycled wine down the drain. The acrid taste in his mouth was complemented by the sourness in his heart.

He had forced himself to think past his emotions and consider the logic of what a relationship—any kind of relationship—with the angel would entail. First, and most importantly, they were on different sides. If word got out that Crowley's new friend was an angel, there would literally be Hell to pay. A close second: Hastur was undoubtedly still lurking out there, waiting for the right moment to exact his revenge for what Crowley had done to Ligur. If he found out about the angel, the angel would be at risk. And an equally close third: Unless Beelzebub believed that Crowley had something nasty planned for him, she would not approve either. When Crowley failed to produce that something nasty—again, Hell would not be pleased, and the angel would be under threat.

After noisily piling the bottles into a large carry bag, he went to the wide window overlooking the city and stared morosely out. He could not put the angel in harm's way. Which meant that he must not see him again—or, more specifically, be seen with him. But, he consoled himself, he would have one last look, from a safe distance.

The coffee shop across from the angel's bookshop opened early. Crowley made his way there (after putting all of his bottles into an unattended recycling bin), and found the place heaving. The two people staffing the counter were good-naturedly filling orders and wiping down tables. Crowley snagged a seat at the same table he had sat at the day before without having to use his demonic wiles—but when a young human attempted to sit opposite him, a mere look was sufficient to maintain sole occupancy. It was a rough kind of comfort to think that the angel would have been appalled.

When a second person tried to sit there, this time a heavily pregnant woman, Crowley allowed it, albeit grudgingly. If anyone noticed that he hadn't purchased anything, they chose not to mention it. The woman set her bag on the table next to her coffee—a macchiato by the smell of it—and leaned forward, resting her head in her hands. Crowley ignored her. Humans were in a state of drama over some perceived personal tragedy seemingly at all times. He watched the door of the bookshop. The lights were off inside and the open/closed sign was still turned to Closed.

Someone brushed against Crowley's arm as they greeted the pregnant woman. She raised her head, a big smile on her face. So, not distressed, just tired. He started to turn toward the other person, a snarl on his lips, but at that moment, the bookshop door opened and the angel appeared. Crowley rose abruptly. He created a space among the humans where there was none, and slipped into it. He had to shoulder his way through the crowd—it went all the way to the pavement now. By the time he made it to the street, the angel was walking briskly away.

The sight of him shook Crowley's resolve. Perhaps this had been a mistake. But he grimly set off after him, keeping well behind but close enough to track that shining head. The angel did not dawdle. They were very close to the park when he nipped into a Sainsbury's Local, emerging a few minutes later with a small packet, which he stuck into a pocket. He moved as if he had a purpose. On the one occasion that Crowley caught a glimpse of his face, he was smiling.

Crowley's insides ached. He couldn't do this. How could he? _Because he had to._

The angel stuck to the route he had taken the day before. When Crowley was certain that the park was his destination, he peeled off onto a side street. A few minutes later he jogged through the Marlborough Gate and onto the grounds. He did not go to the railing or the bench. There was a huge plane tree on the opposite side of the lake. From there, where no one would notice him, he would take a last look at his angel.

The day was fair, as promised, with a gentle breeze. Beneath the ruckus of bird chatter and the susurrus of branches, Crowley waited. As the minutes crept by, he grew increasingly twitchy. If the angel had gone round to the Africa Gates, he should have been at the railing by now. Unless he hadn't come to the park at all, and that would be—

A voice came from behind him.

"Demon."

Crowley nearly fled his skin. He didn't even try to compose himself before twisting round to face the angel, who stood only a couple of feet away. He was perfectly poised, hands together, his expression pleasant, though there was no friendly smile. His eyes were incongruously hard in that sweet face.

Crowley swallowed. "Angel," he croaked.

"Looking for someone?" the angel asked lightly.

"Yeah." Crowley shrugged. He pointed across the lake. "But he's usually over there."

The angel's eyes became infinitesimally warmer. "You followed me yesterday and again this morning."

Crowley's heart was in his throat, beating so hard he could scarcely breathe. He nodded, the movement jerky. "Yes."

The angel studied him for a long moment, revealing nothing of his thoughts. And then he unclasped his hands and swept an arm wide in the direction of the lake. "Time to see to the ducks." 

"I—I didn't bring—" Crowley stuttered.

"I have enough for both of us." And with a measuring look, he strode off toward the railing on the near side of the lake. Crowley stumbled after him.

When they stood shoulder to shoulder overlooking the water, the angel pulled the packet out of his pocket and gave it a little shake. The birds heard the sound, or maybe they recognized two reliable providers, and glided over at once. He spilled a few into his palm and handed the packet to Crowley.

Crowley accepted it sheepishly. He couldn't seem to organize his thoughts, though one stood out: The angel could clearly look after himself. Crowley had been careful. He should not have been seen. And yet, in his presumption, he had somehow allowed the angel to sneak up on him.

As he raised his hand to lob a couple of peas into the swarm below, the angel said, "So. What are your intentions, demon?"

"Er—" Crowley realized that he couldn't immediately answer. Whatever his intentions had been, they were now in shambles. He needed time to come up with an acceptable answer. "Crowley," he said, instead.

The angel turned his head and stared at him.

"My name. It's Crowley."

Once more the angel regarded him without speaking before resuming his dealings with the ducks. "My question stands."

What could Crowley say that wouldn't get him banned? _I'm obsessed with you. I want to know more about you. I want to spend all of my time with you._ He hedged, "Do I have to have intentions?"

The angel raised his brows. "You followed me. And you are a demon."

Crowley, with six thousand years of language and thousands of different languages at his command, merely shrugged.

"Have you, perhaps, been assigned to me?" the angel asked, and he sounded as if he might not want to hear the answer.

"Assigned to you?" Crowley echoed, taken aback.

Focusing on his aim, the angel shrugged. "I am not on the best terms with my superior. I wouldn't put it past him to—"

"You think he would hire a demon?" Crowley was genuinely horrified. The angel's superior must be another angel of higher rank. That would be like Beelzebub recruiting an angel to do the devil's work—simply not done.

The angel sighed. "Yet here you are." He took the packet back from Crowley's unresisting hand and refilled his palm. "Perhaps you have been tasked to tempt me to some wrong. Not that you would answer honestly, of course."

Well, of course he wouldn't. But he hadn't lied yet. "You wound me—" Crowley protested, feebly trying for humor. The angel did not smile. "Er—" He paused dramatically and turned his head with a hand to his ear in the hope that the angel would take the hint and fill the emptiness with his name.

At that the angel seemed amused. "Aziraphale."

"Aziraphale," Crowley repeated softly, pleased out of all proportion. He took the packet back without asking permission. "I have not been assigned to you, nor tasked with leading you astray, nor have I targeted you under my general remit. You have my word."

"From someone who stalked me yesterday _and_ this morning, I'm not sure that your word counts for much," Aziraphale observed. 

"I followed you because—" Crowley hated honesty. "—because I was afraid—" He pressed his lips together. 

The angel was watching him, head tilted to one side. When his lips parted and he took in a breath, Crowley knew he was going to ask him to explain, to reveal his fears. And he was nowhere near ready to answer. But the angel spoke a single word. "Coffee?"

Crowley's own mouth fell open. Finding his voice with an effort, he said, "Yeah. All right."

The angel threw the few remaining peas into the cluster of ducks.

As they walked through the park, following the path to the gates, Crowley was filled with a sudden, crazed elation, even though he was well aware that he was not out of the woods yet. He tried to assume his usual loucheness, jamming his fingers into his trousers pockets and rolling his shoulders forward, his stride long and lazy. The angel— _Aziraphale_ —walked with head erect and arms drawn behind his back, fingers laced together.

It was odd how natural it felt to walk beside him, even without conversation—as if he had been doing it for ages, though this was the very first time. The angel led the way, guiding them through streets that he clearly knew well. He stopped outside a small cafe and gave Crowley an enquiring look. "Will this do?" he asked.

"Perfectly," Crowley replied, and was pleased that he sounded more like himself.

The cafe was off the main track, so there were few patrons at this time of morning. Aziraphale pulled out a chair at a table at the front of the dining area, alongside the window overlooking the pavement. Crowley's paranoia reared up, and he considered recommending that they move further into the back. But the angel must know the risks of being seen in public with a demon, and he didn't seem at all worried. Lowering himself into the chair on the opposite side of the table, Crowley continued to feel a little uneasy—until he realized that he was face to face with the angel and free to look his fill. All of his concerns instantly fell by the wayside.

"Mr Fell." An elderly man wearing an apron stopped beside their table.

"Good morning, Reg," Aziraphale said with effortless charm. "A coffee for me, if you please."

"And me," Crowley said, before the server could ask.

Winking, the server, said, "The _pain au chocolat_ has just now come out of the oven." 

Aziraphale looked delighted. "You are a wonder, Reg. Yes, please. But only one. We'll share."

The server shuffled back to the counter. "Dear Reg," Aziraphale murmured, following the man's slow progress. "The years take their toll."

Crowley searched for something to say, anything that would remove that tinge of sadness from the angel's eyes. "A. Z. Fell," he said, with sudden understanding. "Aziraphale. You're the proprietor."

"Yes."

"Antiquarian books."

Aziraphale nodded. His expression had lost that edge of distrust and his gaze was open and almost friendly.

"All antiquarian books?" Crowley asked, sensing that the angel loved his bookshop and the topic would remain a safe one. "Or do you have specialties?"

"Religious texts, mainly," Aziraphale replied promptly. "Though, of course, I carry a wide range of reading material. Including some curious children's books that the shop acquired after—"

Reg returned with a tray bearing two empty plates, two mugs of coffee, and a golden brown pastry on a small paper doily. Aziraphale thanked him. He smiled with his whole face, from the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, to the apples in his cheeks, to the wide open lips and even white teeth. His pleasure was infectious and the server chuckled as he sorted their plates, utensils, and coffees.

Crowley added his courtesies as well, which Reg received with a nod. As the elderly man walked back to the counter, he seemed to loosen up, and by the time he disappeared into the kitchen, there was a definite fluidity in his stride that had not been there before. "You did something," Crowley said, pointing his chin toward the retreating server.

Aziraphale's brows rose. "Angels are allowed the occasional random blessing."

"So they are," Crowley agreed easily. He hadn't meant to imply wrongdoing. "Are you going to eat that?" He pointed at the meltingly warm pastry on the plate in front of Aziraphale.

"Of course I am," he answered with a hint of tartness. "Reg's chocolate croissants are delicious." He sliced it in half with the sharp knife that had been provided for this purpose, and placed a piece onto the second plate. The edge of the knife was thick with softened chocolate. The scent of the chocolate, combined with the buttery pastry, carried across the table as Aziraphale pushed it toward him. As Crowley reached for the creamer, he noticed the angel cautiously scraping the sharp blade clean with a finger. And he was transfixed when the finger disappeared inside his mouth to be sucked clean.

Crowley momentarily forgot to breathe. He cleared his throat and said, "You were talking about your bookshop."

Aziraphale's eyelids slowly rose. His gaze cleared as he licked his lips. Cutting a piece of the pastry with his fork, he said, "Actually, you were explaining why you followed me."

Crowley groaned despite himself. "Can we not?"

"I believe I am owed an explanation, de—Crowley."

Making a production of preparing his mug, Crowley dithered over how he might answer. Aziraphale had delivered another bite to his mouth and was chewing very slowly; yet his eyes, hazy with bliss, were on Crowley. It was distracting and Crowley was having a hard enough time thinking. He forced himself to focus. "What I was saying earlier—'afraid' was the wrong word. I just—I just wanted to know how I could find you, if—"

When he didn't continue immediately, Aziraphale prodded, "'If?'"

Crowley took a sip of his coffee. "If we didn't meet in the park. There have been days—"

"When you were not there."

Crowley stared at him. Did the angel know what he had revealed with that statement? "Yes. And there were days when _you_ were not there."

"As you may have noticed," Aziraphale said crisply, "I have a bookshop."

"It explains a lot," Crowley conceded.

Aziraphale spent a few seconds cutting up his next bite. When he looked up again, the fork an inch from his mouth, he asked "Why were you hiding?"

And that was the question, more than any other, that Crowley had wanted to avoid. No matter how he answered it, the angel's response could not possibly be good. But Aziraphale was waiting patiently. He finished chewing and took up his mug, studying Crowley over the rim. Lost in that gaze, Crowley decided he must go with the truth.

"Right," he said, hoarsely. "Here it is. I'm— _interested_ in you." He winced at his own choice of words. "And that's a bad thing. For you. If you were remotely interested, too, I mean. You'd have to worry about your lot not approving. I realized last night it was a bad idea. Not that you'd ever—but on the off chance—" He growled softly to himself. He couldn't have made this worse if he'd tried. "So I decided to end it before it had a chance to start. But I wanted to—y'know, just one last—" He closed his mouth and sat very still. He had faced execution before, and he remembered it feeling very like this.

Aziraphale's expression had not changed at all, but he seemed to be thinking, absorbing what Crowley had said. And his gaze, clear and penetrating, searched Crowley's face, as if he could peel back the layers and uncover the truth. Since he could have dismissed his words out of hand, Crowley couldn't help but feel the tiniest flicker of hope. The angel put the mug on the table at last, apparently having come to a conclusion—only now there was a line between his brows and he was considering Crowley doubtfully. "You wanted to protect me?" There was a note of something like bewilderment mingled with disbelief in his voice.

Crowley grumbled, "As if you need protecting." 

"Quite right." Aziraphale patted his mouth in case there were any lingering chocolate smears and set the serviette on the table. He glanced down at his waistcoat—no, at the watch attached to it, Crowley realized—and to the demon's dismay, pushed his chair back and stood. "Well, Crowley, thank you for the coffee—and the sweet roll—but it's time to open the shop."

"Oh— I—" Crowley stumbled to his feet. "Wait, you don't want to leave this." He wrapped his share of the pastry in his unused serviette and handed it to him.

"You didn't even taste it," Aziraphale remarked, ignoring the offering.

With a hopeless shrug, Crowley admitted, "Wasted on me, really."

"A pity." Aziraphale's fingers were delving into one of the small pockets of his waistcoat, reappearing finally with two small cards. He set them on the table in front of Crowley. "Since we cannot rely on the park," he said conversationally, "perhaps you would kindly write down your telephone number for me."

Crowley set the pastry on the table with suddenly unwieldy fingers and began to pat himself down for something to write with. Had he been thinking at all, he would have known that, of course, he didn't have a pen or a pencil. If it came to it, however, there was always the tip of his finger— 

"Here." Aziraphale gave him the stub of a pencil. "I usually have something on me. Need it for the job."

Their fingers brushed as Crowley accepted it, and it was a tiny thing—such a tiny thing—but he felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. He managed to scratch his number down with a degree of legibility, but reread it carefully before picking both cards up. For a moment, he studied them side by side. They were business cards for the bookshop, but unlike any Crowley had seen. The scripting was exquisitely old-fashioned—and, owing to slight variations, he could tell that they had been done by hand. "Did you make these?"

Aziraphale took the card Crowley had written on and tucked it back into his pocket, along with the pencil stub which he liberated from Crowley's fingers. He appeared pleased. "Yes. I do them when I'm bored. Keep that one for yourself. It has my number. You know, of course, where the shop is."

"Er, yes." Crowley tried not to look as out-maneuvered as he felt. He watched as Aziraphale collected the remains of the pastry. As the angel moved to go around him, Crowley dragged a bunch of cash out of his pocket and threw it onto the table. He hurried to the door and held it open. Aziraphale murmured a thanks and went through. Crowley followed him onto the pavement. "Aziraphale," he called, before the angel could disappear into the crowd.

Pausing on the far side of the cafe, Aziraphale looked back at him. "Yes?"

"Why—why did you look for me in the park?"

A hesitant smile raised the corners of the angel's mouth. It wasn't one of his beaming smiles, or even one of his friendly ones. It was rueful and a little shy. "Perhaps I am … _interested_ in you, as well. Demon." 

And with that, he walked away, leaving Crowley gawping after him, the flicker of hope now a brilliant flame.

* * *

Crowley spent the remainder of the day in bed, sleeping for England. He woke in the middle of the night, rolled over, and went back to sleep. But before he dropped off, he entertained the prospect of seeing the angel again. _Aziraphale_. His parting words played on a loop inside his head, and the memory of his expression as he had spoken them filled him with warmth.

He was up again at dawn. After a few hours of the morning shows, he tended to his plants. They were in excellent condition—a single incipient failure had been given away the week before (after the shouting and sham destruction)—and he enjoyed whiling a half hour in their verdant, uncomplaining company.

Mid-day, he took in a film. It was entertaining but did not hold his attention well. As he left the cinema, he decided it wasn't the film's fault. He couldn't seem to concentrate on anything. Except for his plans for the afternoon.

It was another typical late November day, cold and grey. Crowley navigated the streets easily, weaving between bundled figures cowering before the wind. He was dressed as he always had, though he had given a little extra time to his hair, making sure that it had the exact amount of rakishness that he preferred. And he was thrumming, almost vibrating with expectation. It had been a long twenty-four hours.

He arrived at the bookshop ten minutes past the hour. Earlier, he had reviewed the picture he had taken of the shop's store hours. If this was not one of the late nights, it should close at three-thirty. Inhaling deeply, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Aziraphale was standing on a cream-colored, circular rug, hands joined together at his waist. Light shone down from a large basilica-type skylight that could have adorned a palace or a church. Or maybe even Heaven. He came forward, his face calm and pleasant. He seemed to have been waiting for him.

Crowley stopped mid-step, as if he had walked into a wall. The reality of seeing the angel again was so much better than the memory he had been holding in his mind. He struggled to contain a smile.

"Can I help you?" Aziraphale said, stepping nearer. His manner was professional, but his eyes gleamed. 

"Dinner?"

Aziraphale glanced around at the book stacks, as if reminding himself where, in his collection, such a topic might be shelved. He reinforced the impression by saying, "This really isn't the kind of bookshop that carries a large selection of such material."

Crowley, completely wrong-footed, said, "Uh—"

"Although, I do have a copy of the _Apicius_ , which you'll have known as _De Re Coquinaria_ , from the late Roman period; _Le Viandier_ from the fourteenth century—no?; the _Yinshan Zhengyao_ , with one of the earliest recipes for Peking Duck, also fourteenth century—perhaps the fourteenth century does not appeal? Or, maybe you are just looking for something more recent. In that case, I have a lovely Mrs Beeton." The angel had to have noticed that Crowley had gone glassy-eyed, but went on chattily, "I do, myself, have a lively appreciation of the culinary arts, but more, I'm afraid, as an enthusiast than an artisan."

Unable to stop himself, Crowley hissed.

Aziraphale's eyes widened innocently. "Oh. Were you perhaps inviting me to dine with you?"

Crowley glared at him. "I'm not sure anymore."

Aziraphale's eyes actually twinkled. "In that case, the answer is definitely yes."

Crowley opened his mouth, closed it. "Great," he said, and meant it. "Should I wait, or do you want me to come back?"

"You may wait, if you wish." He pivoted on his heel and said with classic, stentorian tones, "The shop is closing fifteen minutes early. If you have something I might let you purchase, please come to the checkout desk at once." He glanced back at Crowley with a meaningful look and walked to the desk next to the pillar on the left side of the rug. On top of the desk stood an ancient cash register. Aziraphale placed a pair of metal-rimmed glasses onto his nose and took position behind it.

While others headed for the door, a few people ventured to the register to discuss the items they wanted. Crowley began to prowl the bookshop, taking in titles, whistling to himself at the sheer volume of written material stored here. His ear was cocked to the conversation going on between Aziraphale and the would-be purchasers. Shaking his head, he felt a sneaking sympathy for them. The angel was nothing if not autocratic regarding their intended purchases. They might have found adopting a newborn human a simpler, less grueling experience.

Before long, two out of three customers, clutching their brown paper-wrapped items, were hurrying out the door, probably to escape the possibility that Aziraphale might change his mind. The third grumbled as she went. "Maybe next time, Miss Chase," Aziraphale called encouragingly after her. She did not reply.

As Aziraphale folded up his spectacles, Crowley walked curiously underneath the skylight. It gave a stupendous view of the heavens, and on a summer day must allow in enough sunshine to roast the entire building. Smiling crookedly, he commented, "Nice place."

"It is a magnificent place," Aziraphale corrected him archly. He returned his attention to the till and the counting of his receipts.

"Yes, right, magnificent." He shrugged. "I seem to recall, however, that most bookshop owners are in the business of selling books."

"As am I." Aziraphale rolled the notes into a snug tube and wrapped a small rubber band around them. "It is, by definition, a shop."

"But?"

"But—" he drew the word out, "as sole proprietor, I decide which books are available at any given time. Sometimes, I just want to have a reread before letting them go to a new home. And, some, simply, will never be sold."

"So, a bookshop-cum-library."

There was a playful look in the angel's eyes. "Just so." He waved the roll of bills in his hand. "I'll put this away and we can be off."

Crowley watched him go into a room behind the desk. The angel seemed unconcerned that he was being watched, even as he tucked the notes into a mug inside a large glass-fronted cabinet. "Right," Aziraphale said, tugging his waistcoat smooth as he came out. "Shall we go?"

The afternoon was darkening as they stepped onto the pavement. Crowley thought, belatedly, that he should have brought the car. But Aziraphale seemed fine with walking, and Crowley enjoyed having him at his side. They had just passed Fortnum and Mason when the angel asked, "Do you have a place in mind, or are we foraging?"

Crowley turned his head and their eyes met. He was convinced now that Aziraphale could see through the dark lenses and understood why he wore them. "How does the Ritz sound?

"The Ritz." Aziraphale glowed. "Splendid, actually. Will we be able to—?"

"I made reservations, angel."

"Wonderful."

Night had fallen by the time they reached the hotel. The doorman welcomed them as they went up the steps. Inside, Crowley gave his name and they were taken to their table inside the Palm Court. Soon, they were served champagne, a selection of sandwiches, and an array of desserts. Aziraphale raised his flute and waited for Crowley to do the same. "What shall we toast to?" he asked.

Crowley considered only briefly before suggesting, "Beginnings?"

Aziraphale accepted this with a deliberate nod. "Beginnings." They tapped their glasses together and drank.

"So tell me, Crowley," Aziraphale said, licking his fingers clean after polishing off a chicken finger sandwich, "what is it you do?"

Crowley sipped his champagne. "Demon."

"Well, yes. But don't you all have a specialty? Life's mission, as it were?"

His voice light, Crowley replied, "Bit of this and that."

"Mischief, temptations, subversions, seductions?" Aziraphale reached for another sandwich.

Crowley kept his expression pleasant but unrevealing. "I was originally sent here to cause trouble. I do enough to keep management happy. What about you?"

Aziraphale snorted a laugh. "Much the same, though opposite, of course. It seems, however, that I have been cast adrift since—" He gave Crowley a sudden, sharp look. "Since the End Time. Well, the End Time that—" He put fingertips and thumb together and shot them wide, an abrupt, flaring motion. 

"Quite." That was as good a summary of the failed End Time as any that had occurred to him. "And me. It's been nice to be forgotten, really. I hope it lasts." 

"Yes." Aziraphale set his sandwich down and sipped from his glass. "And for yourself? Do you have—" He smiled faintly, as if acknowledging the absurdity of the question. "—hobbies?"

"A few," Crowley said gamely. _One of them is watching you eat_ , he decided, distracted while Aziraphale took another delicate bite of his sandwich. "I keep plants." Aziraphale looked impressed, if also amused. It made Crowley wish there were something else remotely of interest about him that he could share. But he continued with candor. "Watch the telly. Go to the cinema. Theatre, sometimes. I have a car. I've driven the length and breath of this island."

"Because you have to?"

"Because I like to."

"Not very demon-y hobbies," Aziraphale remarked.

"Nor is owning a bookshop particularly angelic," Crowley pointed out.

"True. Ah—but let us not forget feeding the ducks in St James's Park."

"That," said Crowley slowly, as if it had only just occurred to him, "is not really a hobby."

"No?"

He shook his head. "Not as a rule. Not really."

"You just happened to be there the day that we met? On a whim?" 

Crowley pulled himself upright and leaned forward on the table. Aziraphale seemed to have forgotten his sandwich, waiting for Crowley's response, as if his answer was important. "Something like that," he said.

Aziraphale placed the sandwich on his plate. He pinched his fingers around the stem of the flute and gazed into the sparkling fluid. "That's odd," he murmured, and drank.

"I suppose it is." Crowley sensed that something had disturbed the angel, and he worried what it might be.

Setting the glass on its base, Aziraphale looked up and into Crowley's face, his own expression guarded. "I only meant that I experienced something similar." He paused. "An urge to feed the ducks. In St James's Park."

A strange sensation gathered in Crowley's belly. Hearing Aziraphale put into words what he had been circling for days in his head made him uneasy. It appeared that something—someone—had been responsible for their meeting. _Why?_ Considering the way he was beginning to feel about the angel, Crowley refused to believe it a bad thing. "Well." He raised his glass in a toast, waiting until Aziraphale had done the same. "To the ducks."

Aziraphale's look of uneasiness faded and he smiled very slightly. "To the ducks." 

Their glasses met and rang.

* * *

Mid-morning Sunday, Crowley made the trek through quiet streets to Aziraphale's shop. He had not contacted him for two days, which he thought was showing commendable restraint. Weak sunshine had broken through low clouds earlier, and the forecast called for clear skies by noon. Standing on the opposite side of the road, waiting for a break in traffic, Crowley pulled out his mobile and pressed the newly entered icon for the angel. The two-tone warble sounded in his ear.

Aziraphale's voice came through suddenly, and he did not sound happy. "I'm afraid the shop is closed today. Please try back—"

"Aziraphale!" Crowley interrupted, sensing that the angel was going to hang up. "It's me."

"Crowley?"

"Yeah." He found he was smiling to himself. Aziraphale's tone had changed from curt to surprised and—unless Crowley was reading too much into it—pleased.

"Oh. How are you?"

"Good. You sound busy. Is this a bad time?"

"It is, I'm afraid." He sounded genuinely regretful. "A shipment was delivered early this morning and I need to sort it out."

"I can help." Crowley held his breath.

"It is boring work. Pretty much manual labor. Surely you have something better to do with your Sunday?"

"I can do boring," Crowley said. "Especially if it means we can have lunch after."

"Oh." There was a pause, and Crowley could almost hear the angel thinking down the line. "Well, in that case, ring me when you get here."

"I'm already here, angel. Just across the street." Not waiting to hear the disconnect, he tucked his phone into his pocket as he bounded across the road. The door swung open a couple of seconds before he arrived. Aziraphale stood beside it. "Hello."

Crowley couldn't stop a grin. "Hello." And then, to ease the situation, he brought his hands together and rubbed them vigorously. "Where's the manual labor?"

Aziraphale's sudden smile was like sunlight bursting through clouds. "This way." He took Crowley to a work space not far from the delivery entry near the back of the shop. The floor was covered with stacks of books and, propped against one wall, collapsed boxes. Crowley spotted rolls of tape and scissors nearby.

"Tell me what to do." 

With a black look, Aziraphale said, "All of these must be boxed up. A local charity will be round to collect them tomorrow morning." He gestured toward the many piles of books.

"All of them?" Crowley asked.

"It's too many, isn't it?" Aziraphale sighed an apology. "You couldn't have known what you were signing up for."

"That wasn't an objection, angel," Crowley said. "But didn't you say they were part of a delivery? And now you're giving them away?"

Aziraphale sighed. "Yes, that's right. These," he pointed at a very small number of books on a table, "are all that I can use."

Stepping stork-like over the stacks, Crowley reached for a box and the tape to put it together. "Why did you order them, then?" It was, he thought, a reasonable question.

"I didn't." There was a note of aggravation in his voice.

"You can't send them back?" Crowley was only making conversation and trying to be helpful, but was wary of Aziraphale's pique. He didn't want to get booted out for being annoying.

But Aziraphale's anger was not directed at him. "I would, if I had the remotest idea where they came from." He went down on his knees next to an already partially filled box and scooped up a handful of books and slotted them inside. "They come at random times, there is never any paperwork, the trucks are unmarked, and the drivers claim to know nothing. At least the deliveries have slowed recently. At the beginning I was getting them weekly. This is the first to arrive in a month."

Organizing books randomly into his box, Crowley asked, "When was the 'beginning'?"

"Soon after the End Time." At Crowley's raised eyebrow, Aziraphale said, "Well, that's what I call it, even if it didn't happen. If it didn't achieve its potential, that is."

Holding a pair of books in his hand, Crowley hitched his shoulder. "It happened for us. Demons and angels, I mean. Well, almost happened."

"Yes." Aziraphale gave him a long, enigmatic look. "I think, actually, it may have been Adam."

Crowley repeated quietly, "Adam."

"Adam Young. The Antichrist."

"You know him?"

"Met him. Briefly. To be honest, I don't remember much about it. But I did see him disown his satanic father, I'm sure of that. And after that everything went back to normal. Mostly normal." He tilted his head slightly, studying Crowley's face. "What is it?"

"I was there, too."

"Were you? I'm sorry to say that I don't remember you."

"Same here." Crowley gave himself a shake. "Why would you think that he's responsible for this?" He spread his fingers wide over floor.

"Because my bookshop was changed after that. Not the structure itself. The books. Some texts were gone, and many new ones were in their place. Including children's books, which my shop does not usually carry. And the deliveries—in case you haven't noticed, with few exceptions, these books are the modern rubbish young people read." He went on curiously, "So, you met him, too?"

"Yeah. Like you, briefly. I don't think he liked being the Antichrist." He sucked in a deep breath. "I'm pretty sure he replaced my car after it was destroyed, mad as that sounds." He glanced at Aziraphale to see if he was believed. "That was the power he had—controlling reality. I mean, think about it: She wouldn't have done that, change your collection, repair my car." He added, with a small frown, "But I don't remember much about that day, either."

"I assumed it was Gabriel who fiddled my memory," Aziraphale said darkly. "But if yours also was—"

"It was. I thought it was Beelzebub. My boss. But, maybe she—" He glanced up sharply toward the ceiling and swiftly away. "Maybe it happened to all of us—angels and demons. Just things she doesn't want us to remember?"

"I—I wouldn't mind so much, if it was her," Aziraphale admitted. The look he turned on Crowley was full of admiration. "And it does make sense, if it happened to all of us. Whatever it was she wanted us to forget." He placed another batch of books into his box. "It seems terribly selective, though, and it's a nuisance, certainly. Inconvenient sometimes, as well. But altogether manageable, really." 

Crowley nodded his agreement. Strangely, the memory lapses that had plagued him for the last months were suddenly tolerable, a shared burden, and a minor one at that.

Aziraphale made a soft sound that might have been a laugh. "Well." He grinned at Crowley. "I think we've earned our tea."

With two of them on the job, the packing went quickly. With a space wide enough for Aziraphale to open the door when needed, they stacked the filled boxes where they would be convenient for the charity staff to remove. It was late afternoon when they went out to lunch. Aziraphale recommended a small all-day breakfast diner not far from his shop. This time he claimed the bill and Crowley didn't argue. It was a good day.

* * *

Crowley decided that he needed to proceed with caution. He did not want to wear out his welcome with Aziraphale, even though the desire to see him was ever present. It didn't help that Aziraphale had regular employment and Crowley was unencumbered. Caring for his plants, watching films, keeping his hand in with the odd temptation did comparatively little to occupy his time.

So, with Aziraphale in mind, he conjured ideas for what they might do together when the angel was free. He spent an afternoon at Kew Gardens wondering as he strolled the grounds whether the angel would be open to the idea of a picnic there. Another day, with phone in hand, he used a morning to read reviews of local restaurants that might suit the angel's tastes. He pulled a map of England out of the glove box of the Bentley and, with eyes closed, randomly selected sites for day trips.

The atrocious weather in the southwest proved providential.

It was late morning when Crowley's phone rang. He was in the middle of mapping a route to Canterbury and was disinclined to answer—until he saw who it was. "Aziraphale?"

"Ah! You're there." Aziraphale sounded relieved.

"What is it, angel?" Crowley abandoned his perennial slouch, galvanized as much by the welcome sound of the angel's voice as the agitation in it.

"Oh." Aziraphale gasped, a barely audible noise that might have been despair, or anger, or both. "Oh, Crowley, I shouldn't have bothered you. Please, just disregard—"

Crowley took to his feet. "What do you need?"

"I— Well— All right, a favor, really."

"Tell me."

"Only, you said that you enjoy taking your car out on long drives." He seemed to catch himself again. "But, really, it is too much of an imposi—"

"Aziraphale." Crowley spoke his name firmly. The angel sounded flustered, upset, worried. Crowley would do anything to calm him. "Explain."

That simple command seemed to work. "It's the rail line to Cornwall." He took a deep breath that Crowley could hear clearly over the line. "The track needs repairing, so service is suspended."

"And?"

"And I have an appointment with a solicitor tomorrow. In Cornwall. Apparently the weather is beastly, and even some of the roads are under water."

"You might be able to get a flight," Crowley suggested.

"Oh, no," Aziraphale said, with no hesitation whatsoever. "I don't like aircraft."

Crowley couldn't suppress a laugh. "You have wings, angel. When you want to."

"Not the same at all." He spoke the words with finality. "Look, I am sorry to have disturbed—"

"Hang on," Crowley broke in. "I haven't said no."

"Really?"

Picturing the route in his mind, Crowley spent a moment in concentration. "It's a long drive," he said finally, "and, given the weather, it'd be best if we set off today. Soon as possible, actually."

"Oh, yes!" Aziraphale agreed. Crowley could hear the tension leave his voice. "My ticket was for this afternoon. I have a room reserved and can easily reserve another." He seemed to hear what he had said and added for clarity, "My appointment is for tomorrow afternoon, did I say?"

Crowley grinned to himself. "I'm sure my frantic personal calendar can accommodate you for two days. I can be at your shop in twenty minutes."

"Crowley!" Aziraphale exclaimed, and Crowley reveled in the outsized joy in his voice. "Would you? I'll pick up all of the expenses, of course: room, meals, petrol, and such."

"That's fine, angel," Crowley said—and was seized by an inspiration that could only have come from the depths of his demon heart. He lowered his voice and said, "There will be a small surcharge."

"Oh?" There was a brief lull as Aziraphale seemed to respond to the change in his voice. "I'm sure I can afford it."

Crowley bit his bottom lip. Did he dare push this? His heart was beating a mad tattoo inside his chest and he could feel the blood surging in his veins. Sometimes, living inside a human body could be downright provoking. "You'd best hear what it is first."

The seconds passed—four, five—before Aziraphale said, "Go on."

"A kiss," Crowley said bluntly, and before he could lose his nerve, stipulated, "To be claimed by me when, where, and however I choose."

The silence was absolute. Crowley held his breath.

At last, sounding prim and disappointed, Aziraphale said, "Crowley, really."

Even while his brain urged him to stop and think this through, what in Heaven was he doing, he was going to ruin everything—Crowley insisted, "That's the deal, angel."

Another interminable pause. "It seems," Aziraphale said, very much on his dignity, "unfairly excessive in scope."

"It's almost six hundred miles, round trip," Crowley countered. 

If the stretch of quiet was any indication, Aziraphale was giving this due consideration. "That is quite a number of miles," he allowed, finally.

Crowley waited, fatalistically fearing the worst. He forced himself to say, "Is that a no?"

The angel exhaled loudly. "No." 

Crowley's heart stopped. Before he could say anything, apologize, grovel, swear blind that he had been joking, Aziraphale said, precisely. "No, that is not a no." He cleared his throat. "One kiss."

Crowley let loose a breath he hadn't realized he was still holding. "Right," he said. But he couldn't seem to prevent himself from pushing his luck. "Unless you like it, then—"

"One only," Aziraphale said severely. "I agree."

"On my way," Crowley promised. "See you in twenty." He gave himself only an instant to savor the moment, chanting aloud, "Yes, yes, yes!" In the next, he made sure the flat was secured and, in the instant following that, he was racing down the hall outside his flat, and then clattering down the stairs because he couldn't be bothered to wait for the elevator.

He made the drive from his flat to Aziraphale's bookshop in fifteen. Clouds were scudding in from the west, bringing with them the threat of rain. Crowley stopped the car at the curb and stepped out. Aziraphale must have been watching from inside, for the door to the shop opened at once. He glanced at Crowley then cast a frowning assessment at the Bentley. In his hand he gripped the handle of an ancient leather valise; tucked under one arm were a book, and a tin with a tartan pattern on it. Crowley went up to him and reached for the valise. There was a flash of alarm in the angel's eyes and he fell back half a step. Taking the handle from his stiff fingers, Crowley said, "Don't worry, angel. I'll give fair warning. Get yourself settled while I stow this in the back."

But Aziraphale didn't move. "Your car. Is it roadworthy?"

"Roadworthy!" He trotted to the boot and fitted the valise inside. "You won't find a finer vehicle anywhere."

"Hm." Aziraphale made his cautious way around the front of the Bentley, waiting until traffic had cleared before opening the car door. He set the book and the tin on the floor behind the passenger seat and climbed inside while Crowley settled behind the steering wheel. After a moment of shifting his hips and shoulders against the leather-covered padding, he commented politely, "It is comfortable."

Crowley spotted an opening in the street and jerked the car into the flow of traffic. He put his foot down and the Bentley responded as if it were rocket fueled. Aziraphale squeaked. Reaching for something to hold onto, he almost grabbed the hand brake. Crowley anticipated him and folded his hand over it to avoid a surprise stop. So Aziraphale clutched the edges of his seat. "Must you go so fast?" he asked breathlessly.

"It's the car, angel," Crowley lied. "She can't help herself."

Braced as if for an imminent crash, Aziraphale muttered, "Perhaps booking a flight would have been the better idea."

With a jerk of his chin, Crowley indicated the glove compartment. "CDs in there. See if there's something you like."

"CDs," Aziraphale repeated doubtfully. He undid the clasp and folded down the door to the compartment. Inside was a small stack of music disks in their jewel cases. Effectively distracted, and obviously grateful for any excuse not to watch the road, Aziraphale lifted them out. He flinched when Crowley swerved the vehicle to avoid a suicidal pedestrian. His voice a little thready, he read aloud, "Mozart, Bach, Gregorian chants. And—well, I don't know these."

"I recommend choosing a name you're familiar with. You might not like the others."

The angel made a selection, and then found himself confronted with the arcane secrets of opening a jewel case. Glancing at his progress from time to time, Crowley wove the car in and out of traffic. He was very aware of the angel sitting so closely beside him, of his scent, of his warmth. There was a smile refusing to leave the corners of his mouth, but he ruthlessly repressed it. 

"There!" Aziraphale exclaimed. Crowley startled, but kept a solid grip on the steering wheel as he spared a glimpse at the angel. Aziraphale was proudly holding the lid of the case open. "What do I do with it now?"

With the sweet strains of _Eine Kleine Nachtmusik_ playing throughout the cabin of the car, Crowley drove them out of London. Aziraphale sat quietly, hands knotted together in his lap. His eyes were closed and his head moved slightly with the music. 

Once they'd turned onto the M3, Crowley started watching for roadside services. When he saw the sign for the next one upcoming, he said quietly, "Aziraphale."

The angel opened his eyes. He looked a little more relaxed now. "What is it?" he asked.

"Want to stretch your legs a bit? Maybe have a tea, something to eat?"

Gratitude washed over Aziraphale's face. "Yes, please. That would be lovely."

Crowley guided the car onto the slip road and into the services area. He parked in the nearest available space and unfolded himself from his seat. Aziraphale crawled out and stretched with a groan. He pointed at the boot. "Should I take my case inside?"

"It'll be safe as houses," Crowley assured him.

They were in line at the register when Crowley noticed Aziraphale furtively patting his pockets. "Crowley!" His face was a mask of horror. "My billfold. I—I was in such a hurry, I must have left it in the drawer. Oh, dear!"

"Not to worry," Crowley said easily. "I can take care of it."

Aziraphale stared down at the tea and plate of biscuits on his tray and seemed stricken with embarrassment. Crowley took hold of the tray and pushed it in front of the register to be rung up. As they began to walk away, the angel said, still in an agonized whisper, "I will reimburse you, of course. With interest."

Crowley gave him a cheeky grin. "I should demand another kiss."

Aziraphale did not look amused. "Crowley."

"Just joking, angel. One is enough. For now."

"Kind of you," Aziraphale muttered sourly.

Crowley laughed.

When they were back on the road, Aziraphale's calm had deserted him. His fingers writhed in his lap, and he tensed at every passing vehicle, especially juggernauts. He declined another CD, choosing instead to anxiously watch the road and to offer a stream of unneeded advice.

Realizing that he hadn't yet been told where they were going, Crowley interrupted another warning to slow down. "So—Cornwall. Large-ish place. Anywhere in particular?"

Scowling, Aziraphale replied testily, "Well, of course—" He collected himself and continued more politely, "St Austell."

"I know it." They began to run into bands of rain squalls a few miles after departing the rest stop. Crowley of necessity dropped the Bentley's speed to focus on the conditions of the road and the traffic around them. Aziraphale exhaled his relief. Crowley was not fond of the juggernauts either, as they sent huge waves of water onto the Bentley's windscreen, briefly obscuring his vision. "You said you have a reservation."

"Yes." Aziraphale risked glancing away from the road. "I rang the hotel before you arrived and requested a second room. They, er, weren't able to confirm just then, but I've stayed there before. I'm sure they will come through."

Crowley hoped he wasn't pinning his hopes on that. With the weather and the inevitable delays, the hotels on the peninsula would likely be full up.

"I'm meeting a solicitor," Aziraphale said. The slower speed, despite the terrible conditions, seemed to work as a balm on his nerves. "I think I mentioned that."

"Nothing dire?"

"Oh, no. Something marvelous, actually."

"Go on," Crowley encouraged him. He noticed that Aziraphale was continuing to relax bit by bit and decided it was worth splitting his concentration to keep him soothed.

"An acquaintance passed away recently. I am one of the recipients mentioned in the terms of his will."

Alerted by his off-hand tone, Crowley said, "Not a friend?"

"No. A good person, though, who honored the wishes of his forebears."

Crowley's brows went up. "Forebears."

"Yes." He sounded pleased. "There is an item being held for me. I am to have right of first inspection. If it meets my requirements, I will purchase it."

"For your shop."

"Well, yes. But not to be sold."

"A book, I suppose?"

"Not just any book." Aziraphale's voice was low and confidential. "One of Edward VI's _Book of Common Prayers_."

"That's fairly recent, isn't it?" Crowley had seen the inside of Aziraphale's bookshops, and many of the volumes there dated back far earlier than the sixteenth century.

"As such things go, certainly." Aziraphale nodded for emphasis. "But this one is very rare and very special." He didn't try to conceal his acquisitive delight.

"Why?" 

"It has been in the family since its printing."

"Ah. And they are selling it now, because—?"

"In part to honor the arrangement I made with the original owner. And—more prosaically—to cover the costs of the education of the remaining heirs."

Crowley was forced to apply all of his attention to their surroundings and the terrible conditions for a few miles. The roads were running with water and traffic had dropped to a crawl. Once they had gotten round a disabled vehicle on the verge, the pace picked up a little. Eventually the traffic thinned and they came out from under one of the heavier bands of rain. Crowley spied an opening, applied foot to accelerator, and they began to run ahead of the congestion. At last he was able to resume the conversation. "Must be expensive."

"Very dear, indeed."

"And, er, how do you mean to pay for it?" he asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

But Aziraphale colored at once. "You might well ask. I have a draft for the agreed-upon sum in my valise." His hands wrestled together. "I do apologize, Crowley. And I assure you that I shall—"

"Not to worry," Crowley cut him off. He deeply regretted having asked the question. He shaped his mouth into a sharkish grin and with a gangster voice said, "I know where you live."

He was relieved when Aziraphale responded with a tiny smile. "And will you break my fingers if I don't pay up?"

"What have you been reading, angel?" Crowley asked, amused.

"A tawdry little mystery," Aziraphale confessed, with some embarrassment. "I enjoy them sometimes."

Enchanted, Crowley said, again in a harsh, guttural voice, "I have other means of making you pay, Mr Fell."

Aziraphale shot him a dark look. "One kiss only."

It was almost the hardest thing that Crowley had ever done, but he managed not to laugh out loud.

* * *

It was well after dark when they arrived at the hotel. A converted mansion, it had retained a tiny fraction of the previous grounds, and some of that was used for guest parking, for which Crowley was grateful. He dropped Aziraphale off at the front entry and parked the car. The roads for the last hundred miles had been abysmal. But for the Bentley, they would not have made it at all.

Crowley splashed through the puddles to the front door, leaning forward against the rain that continued to pelt down. He walked into pandemonium, almost tripping over a large suitcase that had been abandoned just inside the foyer. Stopping to assess the situation, he realized it was as he had suspected. Local flooding had resulted in a shortage of accommodations for travelers and all of these people were desperate for rooms.

He searched for Aziraphale's distinctive hair among the crowd of heads and located him at one end of the reception desk. His expression was displeased but polite. He accepted the room key being offered to him and stepped away. Crowley met him halfway across the lobby floor.

"What is it?" he asked. Aziraphale was attempting to juggle the valise, his book and tin, as well as the key and the paperwork he had been handed. Crowley slipped the valise out of his hand and herded him toward an open space.

"There is only one room available," Aziraphale replied, distraught. "My original booking."

Crowley lifted his shoulders. "We can share. Can we share?"

Aziraphale swallowed nervously. "Well, yes. But there's only one bed, Crowley." He glanced around, as if worried that someone might overhear him.

Bending nearer, his words for Aziraphale alone, Crowley said, "And you promised me a kiss. Nothing more. It'll be all right."

"But I—"

"Trust me," Crowley said shortly. He nodded toward his hand. "You have the room key. I have your case. Let's go. You're going to want tea."

Aziraphale exhaled raggedly. "Very much."

They went up the stairs and, as they went, the quieter it became. Using the signs posted at the landing, they easily found their room. To Crowley's surprise Aziraphale worked the keycard with aplomb. He pushed open the door and stood aside so that Crowley could enter first. 

Crowley elbowed the rocker switch that turned on the light over the entry. It gave a soft glow to a small room almost entirely filled with a duvet-covered bed which stood high on a divan base, a single chair, a small desk, and two even smaller tables, which stood on either side of the head of the bed. The wall behind the pillows was painted with a riot of dragonflies, their bodies either teal or burgundy, their wings transparent. "That could keep you awake at night," he remarked, setting the case onto the chair, and the tin and book onto the table which stood beside it, beneath the single window.

"They've redecorated since I was here last," Aziraphale said in a small voice, as if he were personally responsible.

Crowley pushed a finger between the closed drapes and peered out. There were lights not far away, but heavy rain against the glass made them flare and ripple. The thick cloth did a fine job of keeping the chill out. He overlapped the folds of fabric and took no more than a couple of steps further toward the left of the dragonfly wall so that he could recce the _en suite_ sink, toilet, and bath. It was minuscule but functional. He walked around the entire bed—Aziraphale was forced to back against the wall to give him space—glanced briefly at the basic flat screen TV mounted on the wall opposite the foot of the bed, then looked back at Aziraphale across the room.

The angel looked wretched. "I put a deposit down when I made the reservation. Through my bank." He made a meaningless gesture with one hand. "But they will require payment in the morning when we check out."

Crowley nodded matter-of-factly. "We'll be good to go." He took off his glasses and set them on the bedside table, unthinkingly laying claim to that side of the bed.

Aziraphale's expression did not ease. Crowley realized that some of his distress must be of his making. The angel obviously dreaded the fulfillment of his debt and not knowing when it would be called in was undoubtedly preying on his mind.

Crowley went to the foot of the bed. He sat down and gave the mattress an experimental bounce. And then he patted the duvet—in watercolor shades of burgundy and teal matching the dragonflies on the wall—next to him. It puffed up after each press. "All right," he said baldly. "Let's get this out of the way."

The angel lost all expression. "What—?"

"My kiss. I'll have it now."

"But—"

Crowley patted the duvet again. And waited.

For a moment he thought Aziraphale might refuse. But then he drew himself up so that his shoulders were back and his head high, swallowed, and said, "Right." With all the fortitude of a condemned criminal walking to the gallows, he stepped up to the place Crowley had indicated. He lowered himself down, back stiff, and turned just enough to meet Crowley's eyes.

Crowley felt a vast tenderness for him at that moment. He scooted a little closer, so that his thigh was pressed against Aziraphale's knee. Holding himself rigidly still, the angel closed his eyes, puckered his lips, and waited.

Crowley's throat went dry. Aziraphale's lips looked soft and moist, and he wanted more than anything to taste them, to savor them. "It's all right, Aziraphale." He hardly recognized that husky murmur as his own.

Aziraphale let out a quick breath and peeked at Crowley before re-squaring his shoulders and closIng his eyes again. Insides melting, Crowley took the angel's jaw in his fingers—a delicate touch—and was pleased when he didn't flinch away. He urged Aziraphale to turn his head closer toward him and lightly pressed his mouth against his cheek. "Paid in full," he whispered. With that he let him go and stood up. Aziraphale blinked up at him with a kind of blank confusion.

Crowley said, "Hungry?"

Aziraphale seemed to struggle to find his voice. "Yes."

"There's a pub not far from here. We'll get drenched, but they might have some good grub."

"We won't," Aziraphale said. Straightening his waistcoat, he pushed himself to his feet. "Get drenched, that is. I'll see to that."

Pasting a jaunty smile on his lips, Crowley consoled himself that he had done the right thing. The anxiety had gone out of the angel's body and he looked almost happy. "I understand there are some lovely local wines," he remarked, following Crowley out the door. He continued to fill the silence between them as they made their way through the horde of travelers who had spilled into the foyer, and all during their walk in the dark and the rain.

They shared a bottle of one of those wines, and Aziraphale enjoyed a slice of cake. The pub was thick with damp-smelling humans, all in a good mood as if to counter the gloom outside. As Crowley had expected, the angel's mood was far more congenial now that their transaction was out of the way. In fact, he was almost ebullient with the prospect of examining his new acquisition the following day. When they returned to the hotel late in the evening—dry, as Aziraphale had promised—they found the reception area almost empty except for hotel staff and a few late arrivals. 

Once more in their room, Crowley removed his shoes and glasses. "Do you mind?" he asked, picking up the remote for the telly. 

"Not at all." Aziraphale was in the midst of slipping off his own shoes. As Crowley flipped through the channels, the angel shrugged off his coat and folded it carefully over the back of the chair. He uncoupled the cufflinks at his wrists and set the gold pieces next to the tin on the table. He loosened his bow tie and unbuttoned his collar. With book in hand, he went to the bed. After pushing a couple of the many pillows against the dragonfly wall, he sat with his back propped up and his legs stretched out in front of him.

Crowley sat on the other side, pretending that his attention was consumed by the television. In fact, he was surreptitiously watching the angel make himself cozy. Aziraphale took his glasses out of a pocket in his waistcoat and arranged them on his nose. The pages rustled as he opened the book to where he had left off. As Aziraphale read, Crowley found himself looking at the angel's stocking feet—tartan patterned. Tin. Bow tie. All tartan patterned. Why not?

After watching the weather report—the rain was rushing westward and tomorrow this stretch of Cornwall was forecast to be mostly clear—Crowley switched off the television. He laid himself on top of the duvet, folded his arms across his chest, and closed his eyes.

A moment later Aziraphale asked, "Do you want the light off?"

"Nah," Crowley replied. "It's fine." Warm, at rest, and ridiculously contented, he drifted off to the faint crackle of paper and the muffled clatter of rain at the window.

He woke some unknowable time later to the fury of the wind whipping round the building and the rain slapping against the glass in sheets. The room was like ice. The light was still on—no, it was a different kind of light. Celestial light, unless he was mistaken. The duvet was wrapped around him, and his head—his head lay on Aziraphale's lap. Not only that, his arm was stretched across Aziraphale's middle and he was curled up closely against him. As this realization flooded Crowley's groggy brain, he held himself inhumanly still. He was unbelievably warm and snug, and he absolutely did not want to do anything to change that. But he was also horrified to discover his imposition. Following two distinct and opposite imperatives, he steeled himself to move.

"Hush, demon," Aziraphale said in his most kindly tone, the one surely reserved for injured children and starving mothers. His forearm was resting on his shoulder, surprisingly heavy, and he lent weight to it to when Crowley would have stirred. "The power went out. I think you were cold." He gave his shoulder a light pat. "No harm done."

Crowley made his muscles uncoil and exhaled slowly. If this was okay with him, he would gladly take advantage of it—within reason, of course. He snuggled even closer, craving the angel's warmth. Aziraphale merely adjusted the duvet around him and patted his shoulder again. He turned another page.

"Are you warm enough?" Crowley whispered.

"More than," Aziraphale assured him. "You are a veritable furnace. Now go back to sleep. We've a ways till dawn."

Sleep seemed an impossibility. There might never be a moment like this for them again. It should be properly respected for the unexpected boon that it was. But despite himself, made drowsy by Aziraphale's warmth, and contrarily lulled by the muted noise of the storm raging outside, Crowley slept.

* * *

The rain stopped sometime before dawn. When Crowley woke, it was to bright sunshine pouring into the room. Aziraphale stood before the window, his face pale amber in the morning glow. The bow tie was once more round his collar, and there was a glint of gold at his wrists. He was smiling slightly at something beyond the window or perhaps simply because of his angelic nature. In that instant Crowley wanted that smile turned on him. As if he had heard the thought, the angel turned his head and his smile widened. "You're awake."

For an instant—two—three, Crowley stared back at him. "Yeah," he said. Remembering himself, he rolled out from beneath the duvet, and started to pull on his boots. "The heat's back on."

"A couple of hours ago."

Crowley straightened his clothes, aware that his hair must be standing up pretty much every which way. A tap of the finger at the temple set every hair in its place. "Do you want to hang around here or find somewhere to eat? If there's somewhere not flooded or washed away."

"I could murder a cup of tea," Aziraphale said, fervently. 

"Well, then, let's check out—unless you want to come back?" Aziraphale shook his head and pointed at his valise and the book and tin sitting neatly beside it, ready to go. "Right. I know of a couple of places that might do." Grabbing his jacket off the chair back, Crowley gave the room a swift inspection and followed Aziraphale out.

They found a place to breakfast not far from the hotel. Puddles stood everywhere, gleaming under the sun, and water continued to rush along the curbs toward storm drains. Otherwise, St Austell appeared to have weathered the wind and rain without damage. 

While they waited for their server to bring their meals, Aziraphale paged through a couple of pamphlets for local attractions he had snagged off a rack in the hotel. "Crowley."

"Hm?"

"When was the last time you were in Cornwall?" He broke away from his study as their drinks were delivered. "Oh, thank you!" he said. Their server, a young man who, until that moment, had had the dark demeanor of someone having a very bad day was surprised into a smile by Aziraphale's warmth. A glance at Crowley's stern face, however, made him wary, and he hurried away. Aziraphale peeked under the lid of the pot, closed his eyes, and inhaled. 

"Couple of centuries ago?" Crowley replied. He was watching Aziraphale prepare his tea, while he absently stirred sugar into his coffee.

"Have a look at this," Aziraphale said, and slid one of the pamphlets across the table to him.

"The Eden Project," Crowley read out loud. "Biomes with rainforest and Mediterranean environments. What the Heaven is a biome?"

"That is," Aziraphale said, pointing at the domes. "Inside there. The rainforest in one; the Mediterranean in the other."

The angel's interest was unexpected. "You want to visit?"

"The rainforest one. Do we have time? My appointment isn't until half past one."

"Don't see why not." Crowley's eyebrows seemed to go up of their own accord. "Just curious, but what's the appeal?" He sipped his coffee as he considered the tiny map on the back page. The attraction was only a few miles away, an easy drive from here.

Aziraphale shrugged as if he wasn't sure himself of an answer. "It's silly. But—it might be fun to see how close to Eden they've come?"

Giving him an indulgent look, Crowley said, "Couldn't come anywhere near it, Aziraphale. You know that."

"Of course I do." He lowered his eyes and Crowley sensed that he had said the wrong thing. Was Aziraphale disappointed? Embarrassed? Before he could say anything more, their server returned with eggs and toast for Aziraphale and a scone for him. The scone was really for Aziraphale, a treat to follow his meal, but Crowley would pick at it for show until then.

"You were there?" Crowley asked.

"Yes. Guardian of the Eastern Gate, that was me." He ate a forkful of eggs, followed by a small bite of toast. 

Crowley broke a tiny piece off his scone and popped it into his mouth. "So was I. There, I mean."

"Were you? What did you do?"

Crowley realized that he'd walked himself right into that one. It hadn't really been his fault that everything had gone wrong after that day. Well, not all his fault, anyway. He pulled a face. "I was the serpent."

Aziraphale stared at him. "Were you," he said again, in a very different voice. A small line appeared between his brows as he raised his mug. "I guided them out after the fall, Eve and Adam." The thought, either of his part or Crowley's, seemed to disturb him.

"Just doing our jobs," Crowley said mildly.

Aziraphale's expression slowly cleared and he returned to his food. "Yes. I was just thinking that perhaps we ought to have met—but of course I have no memory of you."

Crowley muttered, "Nor me. Maybe we did meet. Maybe—"

"Maybe that's one of the things we were made to forget. Yes." He sighed, and then said plaintively, "I just have to wonder why."

They finished their breakfast in silence. Aziraphale absently made short work of the scone when Crowley placed it onto his plate. Afterward, as they walked to the Bentley, stepping around the deeper puddles, Crowley took another look at the map. "Shall we go back to Eden, angel?" he asked with a half smile.

"Yes. If you don't mind." Crowley was learning that Aziraphale made little effort to conceal his emotions. Now it was obvious that his spirits had lifted at the thought of visiting the site, his face open and radiant. "It might be fun."

The signage to the site was well placed and Crowley had no trouble finding it. Built inside a former china clay pit, the grounds were astonishingly well developed, especially given that work had begun only a bit over twenty years before. Looming over all were the huge geodesic dome complexes which housed the biomes. Crowley paid for their entry and they went together to the rainforest biome. They wandered around the lush gardens and it wasn't long before both had removed their jackets. It was as if they had been transported to the tropics, complete with soaring temperatures and stifling humidity.

Nevertheless Aziraphale insisted on climbing the stair to the viewing platform, which offered a vista of the entire grounds. Standing that high, just below the roof of the dome, it was also oppressively hot and damp. Breathing hard, the angel stared rapt at the waterfall at the other end of the dome complex, at the massive palms and towering bamboo. The rush of water was everywhere, along with bird song, squawks, and calls. There were few tourists this morning, possibly because of the rain delays the night before. For the moment the viewing platform was theirs alone.

Aziraphale was murmuring to himself and Crowley had to lean nearer to hear him. "It was like this," he said.

Crowley laughed under his breath. "Nothing like this."

"You're remembering before." At the question in Crowley's face, he explained, " _Before_ the humans were driven out. When the sun still shone all day and the rain fell only at night, always gentle, never lingering. The air then was always fragrant, sweet. And the birds sang, never squabbled." His eyes went distant. "None of the animals harmed each other. And the only insects were useful ones: bees, butterflies, worms—"

Crowley said wryly, "Pretty sure worms aren't insects, angel."

Rolling his eyes, Aziraphale said, "Small, beneficial, _creeping_ creatures, then." He made an expansive gesture. "This—this is what it was like _after_. The squabbling, the monstrous heat, the reek of decay. Death and pain."

The temptation to reach out and cradle Aziraphale's cheek in his palm, to comfort him, was shockingly strong. Crowley glanced away. He placed his hands on the railing and spread them wide apart. "The monstrous heat is rather nice."

"For you!" Aziraphale drew a monogrammed handkerchief out of a pocket and swabbed his face.

The spell created by Aziraphale's words had broken. By unspoken agreement they made their way back down the long, long staircase, their heels ringing on each metal step. Outside once more, they quickly donned their jackets, assailed by the fresh breeze coming off the ocean. The inside of the Bentley was much warmer.

As Crowley turned the car out of the car park and onto the road heading back to St Austell, he noticed that Aziraphale was gazing down at the pamphlet. "We can come back another time," he offered.

Drawn back from wherever his thoughts had taken him, Aziraphale smiled vaguely. He shook his head. "I was just hoping, perhaps, it would help me remember."

Crowley said nothing. He hadn't planned for the length of their visit, and would have to rush to get Aziraphale to his appointment in time. He put his foot down, and they were both pressed back against their seats. Aziraphale gasped and threw a hand up against the roof to steady himself. Throwing him an apologetic glance, Crowley said, "Don't want you to be late, angel."

"Quite!" Aziraphale agreed, his voice a little higher pitched than usual. As the car entered the main road and Crowley eased off the accelerator, he admitted ruefully, "I'd almost forgotten why we are here."

They arrived at the building housing the solicitor's office with moments to spare. Crowley deposited the angel at the curb and drove around until he found an acceptable parking place. He popped in to the office to speak briefly with the receptionist, explaining that Aziraphale would have to use their office phone to contact him when his meeting was done. He gave her his mobile number and set off to wander the local shops.

The streets steamed in the sun, even though the air was cool. Presented with a couple of opportunities for mischief, Crowley suppressed his nature. He told himself they wouldn't have been that much fun, anyway. In truth, his mind was with Aziraphale, cloistered with the solicitor. He pondered the angel's desire to regain his memory, and wondered why the thought made him uneasy. Avoiding a puddle in front of the door, he went into a sweet shop where he picked up a packet of Cornish fairings for Aziraphale, an edible memento of their day in Cornwall. He hoped that the angel liked gingerbread. 

Eventually, bored of walking—having had enough of it during their visit to the biome—he circled back to the office. He had been away barely an hour. The receptionist, a young woman with bright green eyes and hair almost as red as Crowley's, greeted him warmly. Between calls, she tried to engage him in conversation, but Crowley was polite but unencouraging. She gave up about the time the door behind her opened and the solicitor came out, a hand on Aziraphale's shoulder. It was only an idle thought, but Crowley speculated about how easily that hand would break.

Making his goodbyes, Aziraphale caught sight of Crowley climbing out of the chair and looked delighted to see him. The solicitor, an older man, tall but stooped, his long narrow head topped with thick white hair, shook his hand, and only then spotted Crowley. He faltered. Crowley realized he was radiating intimidation like an unhappy badger. "Have everything?" he asked Aziraphale casually.

"Yes." He was holding an A4-sized casket close to his chest and he looked as though he had won a prize.

"Well, Mr Fell," the solicitor said, "if there is ever anything I can do for you here, you have my information." He put out a hand for the door, but Crowley reached it before he did.

Aziraphale gave Crowley a quick, searching look. With a final word of thanks, he followed him out. As they walked down a flight of stairs to the ground floor, Aziraphale said, "I'm sorry the wait was so long."

"It was fine, angel." Crowley took the valise from him so Aziraphale could hold his new treasure with both hands. He pushed open the door that led to the pavement, saying, "Something to eat before heading back?"

"If you don't mind." But there was a question in his eyes. "It'll be late when we reach London."

"That's all right."

Crowley led the way down the narrow pavement leading to the car park. The sun was lowering and the air was beginning to bite. It would probably be dark before they were even back on the road.

As Aziraphale made himself comfortable in the Bentley's seat, he observed quietly, "You were angry back there. In the solicitor's office."

"Was I?" Crowley pretended not to know exactly what he was talking about. "Mustn't have been important." He pointed at the glove box. "Packet of biscuits for you."

"Biscuits!" After a brief struggle with the clasp on the glove box, and then with the packaging, Aziraphale wrested out a small golden cookie redolent of ginger, cinnamon, and mixed spice. "Cornish fairings," he murmured. "This takes me back." He gave it a good sniff before putting it onto his tongue. "Hmm. These are very nice. Thank you." He offered one to Crowley who, pleased that the treat had met with the angel's approval, gave his head a shake.

They ate at a restaurant near Bugle. While waiting for their meals, Aziraphale opened the casket with the kind of reverence usually reserved for unveiling the Tower jewels. The quarto bound book lay inside a fitted recess lined with velvet. "Is it what you expected?" Crowley asked guilelessly, well aware that the question would give Aziraphale all the opening he needed to occupy their conversation.

Over the next hours, during and after their meal, and as the Bentley hurtled through darkness, Crowley learned more about the imprint, the paper, the binding, and the condition of the book itself than he could have imagined. But he didn't mind. The sound of Aziraphale's voice, deep and rich, an orator's voice, was pleasant and soothing. If he drifted a little from time to time from the essence of what the angel was describing, he was always very much aware that he was speaking, and he was attentive.

Owing to road works, tailbacks, and a couple of tea breaks to break up the monotony, it was nearly midnight when the Bentley rolled to a stop next to the curb outside the bookshop. Soho never really slept, and there were a few people scurrying along the pavement. The road traffic had dropped, however, and was less hazardous as Aziraphale pulled himself, muttering his relief, from the car. He fetched the book and tin from the floor behind his seat and went round the back of the Bentley to where Crowley was lifting his valise from the boot.

"I'll bring it," Crowley said, and followed him inside. He balanced the case on the floor next to the entrance wall while Aziraphale carefully put his things on the occasional table covered with books.

Aziraphale held up a finger. "Let me just get my billfold."

"Save it for tomorrow, angel," Crowley countered, tipping his head toward the street and feigning a yawn. "I'll come by in the morning, if that's all right."

"Yes, of course." He put his hands together, smiling sweetly. "It has been a long day, all because of me. Thank you again, Crowley. I am very grateful."

Crowley found himself smiling back. Maybe he was more tired than he thought, because he didn't even realize what was happening when Aziraphale came a couple of steps closer and pressed his lips to Crowley's cheek. _Then_ , it took all of his will power not to respond, but to continue smiling, as if Aziraphale's kiss, even a chaste one like this, was a mere pleasantry. He found his voice with some difficulty and managed to say, "G'night, Aziraphale." And on feet that didn't want to obey him, he went back out into the night, across the pavement, and into the car. Aziraphale waved from the open door. Crowley drove away, a little addled with a rare euphoria. He could only imagine the state he'd be in if Aziraphale were to offer up more than a peck on the cheek.

* * *

Being addled, Crowley found, did not suit him. He spent the remainder of the night remembering the warm softness of Aziraphale's cheek beneath his lips and the warm softness of Aziraphale's lips against his cheek. He gave up any attempt at sleep, or even rest, well before dawn. Being in love was going to play havoc with this part of his life. Until, perhaps, Aziraphale was here beside him—a thought that he expanded into detailed scenarios and which occupied him until the early hours.

It was still dark when Crowley walked up to the door of the bookshop, though the sky was greying a little in the east. As he tugged his mobile out of his pocket with one hand, he precariously held a small paper bag and a bouquet of spring flowers in the other. Just as his thumb was hovering over Aziraphale's contact information, the mechanical rasp of the latch cycling sounded from inside the door. 

Crowley waited a few seconds for Aziraphale to pull the door open, though how he could've known that he would arrive at that moment, he didn't know. He couldn't see inside, because the shades were still drawn. But after waiting nearly half a minute, and no Aziraphale, he gave the door an experimental nudge. It swung open. Crowley stepped into the dim lighting of the still sleeping bookshop, taking a moment to close and lock the door behind him.

"Aziraphale?" There was no sign of the angel. In fact, it felt as if he was alone in the building. Crowley respected that quiet and stepped soundlessly down the center aisle. His nose was taking in a myriad of scents that he had not noticed before. A kind of musk—perhaps the indelible remnant of centuries of customers; a hint of polish, lemon and oil mingled together; a surprisingly small measure of dust; and, the barely there animal whiff of hide—parchment, he wondered, or vellum? Given the vastness of Aziraphale's collection and its age, probably both.

He made his way into the room behind the till, where Aziraphale had hidden his takings that day, and saw at once that it was a place where the angel could unwind. A long sofa draped with antimacassars stretched in front of a bookcase; opposite it were a chair and desk, as well as a couple of glass-fronted cabinets. One brow went up involuntarily at sight of the ancient computer taking up space at one end of the desk. Here he sensed the lingering aroma of chocolate, which took his attention to the unwashed mug sitting next to some papers.

Crowley placed the bag on the chair, the only uncluttered surface in the room. He found an outdated copy of the _Celestial Observer_ on the floor and put the flowers on top of it next to the bag on the chair. His head came up sharply as a muffled sound came from overhead. He walked to the end of the room and discovered that it formed an "L" with a short hall that housed a counter with a hot plate, kettle, and a very old, narrow oven. The hall opened out to a spiral staircase and the back of the building. The staircase was blocked from the public and accessible only from here.

Aziraphale was coming down the stairs, and he was humming to himself as he worked a cuff link into the holes of his sleeve cuff. Crowley silently backed into the room with the sofa and there he stood very still, his entire being focused on the angel's approach. Aziraphale came round the corner, his fingers deftly smoothing the cuff flat. He glanced up—and rocked to a stop. "Crowley!" Surprise gave way to confusion. "How—?"

Aziraphale's shirt was unbuttoned from his throat to the bottom of his rib cage. His waistcoat was hanging off his shoulders. The ends of his bow tie lay loose below his collar. With the slow, implacable advance of a predator, Crowley eliminated the gap between them. He stopped a couple of inches in front of the startled angel, his hands smoothly taking hold of the sides of his shirt. "I didn't break in," he assured him, trying to keep his voice normal, though he was finding it an effort. "The door must've been on the latch."

Aziraphale didn't move, seemed hardly to be breathing. "I—I'm sure that's not—"

But Crowley was gazing at the pure white curls on Aziraphale's chest, the line of pale hair against pale skin beneath his sternum that narrowed as it pointed downward. Crowley drew the halves of the shirt together and began to join the buttons from the bottom up. He had almost arrived at the angel's collarbone when Aziraphale spoke again, a barely noticeable tremor in his voice. "I—I am out of practice. I have not had a dresser in years. Centuries."

Doing up the last button but one, Crowley raised his head. He knew his eyes must be bright yellow; he knew they did that when he saw something he wanted. And he wanted nothing more than Aziraphale at this moment. "Do you miss it?" Crowley asked, his voice low, unintentionally rich with temptation.

"N—No," he stammered. "Though you are very good."

Crowley confided, "I always thought it strange playing the mannequin." He bent his head slightly closer, taking his time to absorb the scent of Aziraphale's skin, the hints of bergamot, sandalwood, and vanilla that informed his cologne. His fingers went of their own accord to the buttons of Aziraphale's waistcoat and began the slow upward climb anew. By now Crowley's eyes were on Aziraphale's mouth. The angel's lips were slightly parted and his breath was a warm, uneven caress across Crowley's cheek as he drew even nearer.

"What are you doing?" Aziraphale swallowed; the line of his throat was exposed and Crowley avidly watched it work.

"Kissing you?" His mouth hovered at the corner of Aziraphale's lips. 

Aziraphale shifted, drawing himself upright—but not away, which gratified Crowley. "You—you had your chance," he said, and he sounded a little more like himself—not confident, exactly, but less overwhelmed. "And, anyway, I am an angel."

Crowley met his eyes. "And—?"

Aziraphale swallowed again. "I—I don't—"

"Kiss?"

"Yes," Aziraphale answered firmly.

"'Yes,' you kiss?" Crowley half-closed his eyes as he savored Aziraphale's scent, blinking slowly at the addition of a subtle muskiness that was creating complexity. It might only be Aziraphale's nervousness, but Crowley was hoping it was something else, something that might be the earliest essence of arousal.

"Crowley," Aziraphale murmured, faintly chiding. Still he had not moved.

"But you could if you wanted to." He parted his own lips and brushed them, not even a gossamer touch, against Aziraphale's cheek.

Aziraphale's hands came up and formed loose circles around Crowley's wrists. "I suspect that you would not want to stop at a kiss."

The demon's fingers were on the last button of the waistcoat, his knuckles resting against Aziraphale's chest. Crowley's mouth curved into a smile but, combined with the sharpness and intensity of his gaze, he guessed that his intent must be clear. "That might depend on the kiss."

"Enough, demon." Despite his words, there was hushed affection in Aziraphale's voice along with a lilt of amusement.

"You eat food," Crowley persisted, reasonably, while easily capturing Aziraphale's wrists in turn. "Drink wine. Coffee. Tea. You breathe."

But Aziraphale had regained his composure. "I live amongst humans, and they need to think that I am one of them."

Swaying a little from side to side, Crowley lowered his voice, and it came out like honeyed persuasion. "Humans have sex." 

Aziraphale's eyes flared. He replied, with great precision, "We were talking about kissing."

Crowley leaned nearer and murmured, "It's can be a prelude."

Aziraphale freed his hands and laid them flat against Crowley's chest. "Angels most definitely do not have sex." He licked his lips. "With humans."

Unable to believe what he had just heard, Crowley stopped breathing. And then he swallowed hard himself. "Demons, then?"

Aziraphale glanced away and then back, as if he could not resist. "Unlikely."

"No?" Crowley took a half step back. "You do have all the bits?"

"Of course I do!" Aziraphale retorted, with not a little outrage. "Really—!"

But that's when Crowley kissed him. He let his mouth melt onto the angel's lips, his fingers overlying Aziraphale's hands where they still pressed against his chest. No expert in this kind of thing, Crowley yet knew enough to keep the kiss gentle, innocent. Even so, it was like nothing he had ever experienced, and he wanted it to go on forever. He lost all sense of time but it could only have been seconds before Aziraphale made a low, murmuring sound and he immediately stood back.

Aziraphale's eyes came slowly open and he appeared dazed, his hands slowly falling away from Crowley's chest. Perhaps, Crowley thought, he should not have assumed that the sound had been an objection. But he continued to back away, just a few short paces, to put distance between them. He ran a fingertip under one end of the bow tie. "Never did get the hang of those." And then he gestured toward the chair. "A little something from the patisserie."

Aziraphale simply stared at him.

"I'll just let myself out, then?"

Aziraphale gave himself a brisk shake. He pulled hard on the hem of his waistcoat and raised his chin, signs that he was finding his way back to familiar ground. He said, with some tartness, "Fitting, seeing as how you let yourself in." His brows went up again as he took in the offerings on the chair seat. "Flowers?"

Crowley cocked his head to one side. "Dinner later?"

"I—" A succession of expressions crossed the angel's face: confusion, disbelief, and something Crowley could not define. "Are you courting me?"

Crowley opened his mouth to deny it, if only on general principles, but Aziraphale was beginning to frown. He gave his head a little toss. "It's called dating nowadays, angel. Or hooking up. Or something. Yes?"

For a long—too long—moment, Aziraphale did not reply. Crowley realized that his simple "yes" might have been ambiguous. He wasn't sure himself whether he had been responding to "Are you courting me?" or speaking for Aziraphale in reply to "Dinner later?" But the lines mostly smoothed from between the angel's brows and he said evenly, "The shop closes this evening at six."

"I'll be here." With that, Crowley turned and went resolutely through the maze of rooms and bookcases toward the door. He did not realize that Aziraphale had followed him until the angel said, "Crowley! Your money."

Crowley spun about, and almost collided with Aziraphale, who was right on his heels. "Tonight'll do," he said. And, fighting the urge to touch him one more time, Crowley unlocked the door and hurried out onto the pavement.

* * *

The rest of Crowley's day, with the exception of a brief excursion to the south side of the Thames in the early afternoon, was spent on his sofa in his lounge, not really watching the talking heads as they dealt with everything from Scottish independence to yummy mummies breastfeeding in public. At least once an hour he scrolled through every channel available on his cable access. And once an hour he dropped the remote on the table and went back to staring out the window, oblivious to the inane chatter emanating from the telly's speakers, as he waited for the sun to crawl another fraction of an inch across the sky.

Late afternoon he hoisted his lanky frame from the sofa, made a hasty study of himself in the mirror, and went out. Heavy clouds, borne on a stiff breeze, were bringing night down early. Bowed inside his jacket, Crowley walked from his flat to the bookshop, unaware of and unbothered by passersby. When he saw the bookshop, lights a warm glow in the windows, he felt as though an invisible weight fell away.

He was half an hour early when he slipped inside, but he made no effort to make his presence known. Hidden among the stacks, he dawdled. After perusing a few history books, commenting under his breath about inaccuracies and outright lies, he found a spot from which he could watch Aziraphale at his desk but remain unseen himself. When not disturbed by customers, Aziraphale was reading, peering at the pages through his wire-rimmed glasses. Crowley couldn't see the cover of the book, but wondered whether it was the "tawdry" mystery he had been reading in Cornwall.

As the clock ticked nearer to six, the angel glanced ever more frequently toward the door. At first Crowley assumed that he was keeping an eye on patrons as they filed out, perhaps checking their number against a mental headcount of those who had entered. But as his expression grew less sunny, it occurred to him that Aziraphale was looking for him.

Taking a book off the shelf at random, he waited until the desk was clear. Pretending to be engrossed in the aged pages, he strolled over. "Is this one for sale?" he asked, and handed the book to him.

Aziraphale, whose expression had lightened at his appearance, took the tome from his fingers. "You have an interest in fourteenth century nunneries?" he asked politely.

"Oops," Crowley said. "My mistake. If it'd been any other century…."

"In that case, perhaps you won't mind allowing the gentleman behind you to come forward."

"Right. I'll just … have a look over here?" He pointed. "For the one about the fifteenth century?"

"That would be over there," Aziraphale informed him, still professional and courteous. He pointed at the bookcase Crowley had just left.

With as much grace as he could muster, Crowley gave way to the customer. He took up a post near the end of a row, randomly pulling books out and reshelving them within minutes, his focus on Aziraphale as he dealt with the last patrons of the day. Receiving a few glances and interested looks, he ignored everyone, his attention reserved entirely for the angel. He knew he should be alarmed by the relief he felt now that he was in his company again. It was as if his skin had been too tight, and now it wasn't. After all, that could make things difficult going forward. But for the moment, he accepted that what he was feeling would be the norm going forward.

At last Aziraphale locked the door and drew down the shade. "It looks raw outside," he commented as he returned to the desk. He opened the till, and took out the day's gross. Before Crowley could say anything, Aziraphale uttered, "Oh!" One hand dug into his jacket pocket and reappeared with a thick, folded-over bundle of bills. "Here are you. I believe that covers everything." He waited until Crowley took the owed money. "Thank you, Crowley."

Crowley found he was smiling before realizing he must look a sappy idiot. "Anytime, angel." He pushed the bills into his pocket. "D'you like Indian? I've a reservation down the street."

"Oh, yes," Aziraphale replied, adroitly organizing bills into small piles. "Very much. Just a tick and I'll be ready."

Leaning back against the end of the nearest bookcase, Crowley folded his arms across his chest and prepared to wait. All the while, he watched Aziraphale as he finished his count, rolled the bills into a tube secured with a rubber band, which he then took into the back room, where he presumably stuffed it into a mug used for that purpose.

He came back to his desk and closed the drawer of the till. "What time are we eating?" he asked.

Crowley flipped his wrist over to display the face of his watch. "Half an hour?"

"Shall we go?" Aziraphale came out from behind the desk. "I could use the fresh air."

Crowley's mind was tumbling. He wanted to continue what they had started this morning, but he had no idea how Aziraphale might react if he were to try to kiss him again. And he did not want to make things awkward between them. He had admitted to wanting to be with him, to "courting" him, as Aziraphale had put it. But how should he pro—?

With all the turmoil going on inside his head, he hadn't moved at all and Aziraphale was giving him a curious look. Just as he began to shift himself, Aziraphale came close and took hold of one of his hands. He raised it to his mouth and, staring into his eyes, kissed the back of it. Easing his fingers free, he said, "Crowley?"

"Right." And then because he felt the need for something, anything more to say, added cogently, "Right."

The evening air was fresh. The streets were brightly lit and walkers crowded the pavement. Crowley and Aziraphale strolled along with them. It felt right, Crowley thought, having the angel at his side. As if he had always been there. His hand still tingled from Aziraphale's kiss—a kiss willingly offered, which to his mind could mean only one thing. He might have to go slow, but there was hope, and inside he was celebrating.

A misting rain began to fall, forming halos around street lamps and car beams. They went inside the restaurant, more to avoid the walkers on the pavement than for shelter—Aziraphale always saw to that—only to discover that, owing to a cancellation, they could be seated immediately. Their host set menus before them and promised that their server would follow soon. Aziraphale cast his eyes over their surroundings. "I've been here before," he said to Crowley. "I'm sure of it. And I was with someone, but I don't remember—"

"Maybe you shouldn't," Crowley said without thinking.

Aziraphale's look was quizzical. "I shouldn't remember?"

Crowley shrugged. "If she made all of us forget, she must've had her reasons," he replied neutrally.

Aziraphale dropped his gaze to his menu. "What if it wasn't all of us?"

Crowley felt that unwelcome slither of uneasiness. "You mean, only you and me?"

Nodding, Aziraphale regarded him seriously. "I've been thinking about it, Crowley. What if—?"

"Someone monkeyed with our memories, Aziraphale," Crowley cut him off. "I—I can't believe either of us is important enough, alone, to justify that. So it was probably all of us. Demons. Angels. Which means it had to be someone with the power to do that. And that could only be—"

"But what if it was only our memories—yours and mine—that were, as you say, monkeyed with? What possible justification could there be?"

Crowley greeted their server's arrival with relief. With a lift of the chin he signaled that Aziraphale should order first. He couldn't explain why Aziraphale's insistence nettled him. He'd felt it after they had visited the Eden Project, when the angel had said he was hoping something there might unlock his memories. He didn't like the way it made him feel.

As the server turned away—Crowley could not have said what he had ordered, or even if he had ordered—Crowley started speaking. " _Hamlet_ 's playing at the Globe."

Aziraphale blinked.

"Day after tomorrow."

Aziraphale said nothing, but there was a shadow of a frown on his face.

"You must like Shakespeare," Crowley said. He was beginning to flounder. "You look like someone who reads Shakespeare."

"Do I," Aziraphale said mildly. Crowley did not know what his own expression betrayed. Caution, possibly; doubt; maybe even fear. But he felt scoured by the angel's gaze, though there was nothing of reproach in it. Finally, however, he murmured, "Of course I do. Both read and like Shakespeare." He picked up his napkin and unrolled it to release his cutlery into his palm. "At the Globe, you said?"

"Yes. Day after tomorrow." Crowley realized he had repeated himself and took a deep breath. "Will you come with me?"

Quiet filled the space between them, seemingly a solid thing, like a wall. Aziraphale continued to regard Crowley thoughtfully. The demon wanted to squirm. "Love to," he said at last, and his lips twitched into a smile.

The worry loosened inside Crowley's chest. He reached across the table and took hold of Aziraphale's hand. "Thanks, angel."

"As it happens, the shop is closed in the afternoon. Ah!" He spoke with sudden comprehension. "Did you memorize the hours?" Still smiling, he gave Crowley's hand a squeeze and then wove their fingers together. 

That simple touch made Crowley's breath hitch in his lungs. "I would have," he admitted, "but I took a picture of the sign instead." Aziraphale gave him an old-fashioned look. Crowley went on, "By the way, I'm picking up the tab tonight. And for the foreseeable future. You gave me too much money."

"It was owed. I would have paid far more than that, had I hired a car and driver."

"And it was my pleasure." He rubbed his thumb across the back of Aziraphale's hand. "We can get something to eat after the play." 

"I'd like that."

Their server arrived soon after with their meals. As he tended to his dish, Aziraphale brought up the events of his day, and they talked amiably. Crowley managed a few bites but stuck to his wine. When they were done, he had the remains of his meal boxed and handed it to Aziraphale.

On the way back to the bookshop, the mist was heavier, even though none of its moisture found its way onto either the angel or the demon. When they stood outside the bookshop, Aziraphale thanked Crowley for dinner as well as the meal in the take away box. He muttered something in response. His attention was fixed on Aziraphale's face: the mutable eyes, dark in the night with small glints of reflected light; the curve of his mouth; the ball of his chin, which begged for the gentle press of his thumb.

A small frown formed on Aziraphale's face, and his eyes began to nervously search Crowley's face. There was a lot of thinking going on behind that frown, and Crowley was instantly put on his guard.

"Angel? What—?"

Aziraphale brought his hand up: _Stop_. He cleared his throat, glanced aside. His frown deepened. He cleared his throat again and the words began to spill out. "What you did this morning—" 

"Uh—" The hand came up again. They'd been in each other's company for hours, and Aziraphale had given no indication that he was harboring unhappy feelings about Crowley's stolen kiss. But perhaps he had needed the right moment to put him in his place, and this was it.

"I—" As Aziraphale hesitated, Crowley stood frozen, every muscle in his body, including his lungs, forgetting their purpose. "Oh, bother!" the angel said with some heat. And then, "What I mean to say is, may I—?" Before he finished speaking, he placed a featherlight finger on Crowley's lower lip, gliding the silky tip of that well manicured finger from one side of his mouth to the other. He glanced up at Crowley, as if checking to see if this was acceptable, and what he found in his face seemed to reassure him. Easing closer, he let his fingers slide through Crowley's hair, bracing the back of his head with his palm, and covered Crowley's mouth with his own.

Aziraphale's kiss was guileless but thorough as it slowly discovered the most pleasurable way to mold their mouths together, while also exploring the demon's lips with a curiously innocent eroticism. Crowley was utterly spellbound, his entire existence narrowed down to the warmth of Aziraphale's body and the press of his lips. When Aziraphale released him, taking in a deep breath, Crowley swayed. Aziraphale's cheeks were ruddy with heightened color, noticeable even in the faint light spilling out through the shop's windows. He looked up at Crowley from the corners of his eyes and, despite the pleased gleam in his eyes, appeared almost ready to apologize.

Crowley couldn't have that. He rolled his shoulders, grinning wryly, and in a voice that was little more than a whisper, said, "I guess angels do kiss."

Aziraphale merely shook his head at this cheek, unconsciously licked his lips, and half-turned toward the door. He let his hand run down Crowley's arm and briefly tangled their fingers together before stepping away. "Good night, Crowley."

Realizing that he must be wearing a fatuous smile, Crowley shoved his hands into his pockets and forced himself to get a grip. "Good night, Aziraphale."

* * *

That moment lingered in Crowley's memory. Aziraphale's kiss had been magic, filling his senses and leaving him craving more. He also knew—as Aziraphale must as well—that what they were doing was dangerous. Being friends with an enemy would not garner praise from their supervisors. Being more than friends—well, that might lead to their destruction. Not that their own kind hadn't sanctioned their murders before, and undoubtedly could again. But, somehow, they had survived it. If they had their memories, would they know the "how" of it? Was it important?

Crowley was well aware of the irony of his shutting down the angel's questions. He, of all people, should share his desire to get at the answers. He, who had lost his place in Heaven for asking questions. Of course, then, it had been only his immortal soul at risk. Now it was Aziraphale. He couldn't bear to think of losing him.

He ached for him.

Crowley idled the earliest hours of morning by watching a film on one of his cable channels. And he saw to his plants, for once not shouting at them because— Well, he wasn't sure why. He was on the pavement alongside the first buses of the day, walking a familiar path from his flat to the bookshop. The air was frigid and the lowering clouds smothered any sunrise that might have been in the offing.

The door seemed to sense his arrival. He heard the latch release when he was still a couple of feet away. Stepping into the warm interior of the shop, he took a moment to shake the dew off his jacket. It was absolutely still.

He called out. "Aziraphale?"

The reply came in seconds. "In the workroom." 

The angel was kneeling amidst hundreds of books, organized into short stacks that covered the floor. The arrangement looked familiar. He gave the demon a hard done-by look. "Crowley."

"Another delivery?"

"At three this morning." He muttered something under his breath. "No sense of propriety at all."

"Well," Crowley said, squatting in a clear space, "if you're right and it's Adam who's responsible, he is only eleven."

"Diabolical creature," Aziraphale grumbled.

"Well, yeah."

"You're early again."

Crowley flicked a hand back toward the door. "It let me inside."

"I can see that. And what brought you here this morning?" 

"Just to say hello. But now I can be your dogsbody, whatever you need," Crowley replied, having decided at just that moment. "Why don't I run out and get you something for your insides? Or, better still, come with me. Have a proper breakfast. Then we'll come back and sort all this out."

Aziraphale started to decline his offer; Crowley could see it in his face. But he sighed heavily and summoned a ragged smile. "Why not?"

As Aziraphale struggled to his feet, being careful not to bump into any of the stacks, Crowley extended a hand and helped him up. And it felt perfectly natural, once they were clear of doing any damage, to pull him into his arms and to kiss him. The kiss of greeting turned into a kiss of something more and then into more kisses. When they raised their heads and were gazing stupidly into each other's eyes, Crowley brought up a thumb and grazed it against the corner of Aziraphale's mouth and down into the center of his chin, which he had wanted to do before.

Aziraphale turned his head just enough to press his mouth against the tip of Crowley's thumb. He murmured huskily, "You said something about breakfast?"

* * *

Aziraphale's mood improved as the morning continued. Following breakfast, they returned to the shop and set to work. Once Aziraphale had separated out anything that was, in his estimation, worthwhile, he began putting boxes together.

"Isn't it about time to open?" Crowley asked, shortly before the half hour.

"Oh!" The angel stood and stretched. Looking down affectionately at Crowley, he said, "Well, I can't leave you here on your own."

"Of course you can," Crowley argued. "Your dogsbody, me."

"If you're sure?"

"Just don't forget me when you turn off the lights."

Aziraphale gave him a fond smile, and it went right inside Crowley's chest and took up residence beneath his breastbone. "As if I could." He stepped closer and drew his knuckles along Crowley's jaw. "Right." 

Well before Aziraphale was at last shooing patrons out of the shop, Crowley had cleared the floor of the workroom. The boxes, ready for pickup by Aziraphale's chosen charity, were stacked neatly just inside the delivery door. Despite being left to toil on his own, he had been well seen to. Aziraphale had visited hourly with mugs of tea and, once, a kiss. Crowley, having finished before noon, idled the remainder of the day variously entertained by reading nonsense on his phone, glancing through books in Aziraphale's back room, and snoozing on the sofa. 

"Crowley."

He awoke with a start. Aziraphale was sitting on the edge of the sofa. "Aziraphale, what time—?" He rolled his wrist over and stared at his watch until the numbers made sense. "Must be time to turf me out."

Aziraphale nodded. "Yes." As Crowley sat up, the angel gave him a glass of wine. "To warm your way home."

"Hmm." He drank the glass down, and it indeed had a warming effect. Taking his hand, Aziraphale helped him to his feet. They stood facing each other, no more than an inch between them. They kissed, their lips flavored by the wine. After a moment, Aziraphale stepped back, slipping the glass out of Crowley's fingers, but keeping their hands clasped together.

"I am looking forward to tomorrow, demon. When will you be here?"

"Noon. We can walk to the playhouse, if you like. The forecast is calling for nice weather."

Aziraphale set the glass on his desk and led Crowley to the front of the shop. "All right." At the door, he paused. He let his head fall heavily onto Crowley's shoulder, an utterly disarming intimacy. Crowley raised his hand and haltingly curved his palm around the angel's skull. His curls were soft and warm. "It's an early night for me," Aziraphale sighed. And then he tilted his head back, inviting Crowley's kiss. One kiss became two and then three, sweet, leisurely kisses.

"And me," Crowley whispered, when their mouths parted. He gave himself a small shake. "G'night, angel."

"Sleep well, demon."

Crowley felt Aziraphale's eyes on him as he walked down the pavement and away. The damp air was fresh in his lungs, and he could still taste wine, and Aziraphale, on his lips. He contained a quiet exhilaration. Without the angel at his side, he felt bereft. But knowing that he would see him again the following day brought comfort, elation, madness. As he made his way to his flat, he began to understand that home—where there was warmth and life and love—was, for him, no longer a place but a person.

* * *

For a late November day, the weather was surprisingly accommodating, warm and dry. Crowley took the bus to the bookshop and found Aziraphale awaiting him, his cheeks pink, eyes bright with welcome. It was a long walk to the playhouse and, even though they were very early for the performance and could have walked the entire way, they chose to use the Underground to travel to the north Embankment, where they strolled in the sunshine alongside the Thames, past the sphinx and Cleopatra's needle. Crowley gestured to something on the water and before he could put his hand back into his pocket, Aziraphale casually captured it and laced their fingers together.

Concealing a pleased smile, Crowley asked, "What did you get up to this morning, angel?"

"Caught up my books," Aziraphale replied darkly. "Account books, that is. Had a bit of a wash-up." Pulling a grim face, he explained, "I sometimes forget I've left mugs and plates lying about. You?"

"Nothing so commendable." At Aziraphale's quick look, he explained, "Watched some telly." He made a face, acknowledging his shame. "Watched some more telly."

Aziraphale shook his head with amused affection.

They crossed over the Thames at Blackfriars. The river was at low tide, and Aziraphale pointed out the mudlarkers on the foreshore. "Everything they find we have seen new," he remarked.

"Including this play we're going to," Crowley pointed out.

"Yes. But," Aziraphale argued, "the players will be every bit as much fun as they were in Shakespeare's day."

"Did you ever meet him?" Crowley asked.

Aziraphale wrinkled his brow. "Yes. Possibly more than once. But my memory is unclear on that."

Crowley deemed it wise to let that line of conversation drop. The breeze coming off the river had a nip to it. He was relieved when they stepped onto the south bank and found some protection among the trees along the promenade. 

Not far from the playhouse, Crowley gave Aziraphale a nudge and pointed at a mudlarker on the opposite shore.

"Ah!" Aziraphale said. "Someone has either suffered a scrape—nasty place for it—or treasure has been found."

Crowley sniggered. "That lot think a discarded smoke is treasure."

Aziraphale laughed with him. "Anything over a hundred years old counts as a rare find. People will pay phenomenal prices today for something you or I could have picked up for pennies."

"Typical plutocrat," Crowley said. He tipped his head toward an ice cream vendor. Aziraphale nodded vigorously. "Preying on the rabble."

"I am not a plutocrat," Aziraphale defended himself. He made his selection and paid. Murmuring his anticipation, he swiped his tongue across the swirled soft serve ice cream. "My rule ends at the doors of my bookshop." He caught Crowley watching him, and raised the cone to the demon's lips. "Try some."

Staring into the angel's eyes and wondering if Aziraphale had any notion what he was doing to him, he gave it a lick. And then he bent forward and kissed him. Crowley marveled at himself as he drew away. He was not one for public displays, and certainly not public displays involving emotion, much less affection. "I'll have that," He plucked the Flake bar out of the center of the cone and gave it a chomp. Before Aziraphale could protest, he gently guided the end of the bar between the angel's lips. Aziraphale bit off a piece, then added a small amount of ice cream to the tip of his tongue. Affecting bliss, he swung back to the pavement, his free hand once more tightly linked with Crowley's.

They sat for a while on a bench overlooking the Thames. The mudlarker had disappeared up the steps; another, a little farther away, continued to scour the mud, hunched over like a crane seeking fish. "My lips are frozen," Aziraphale announced, as he chewed the last of the cone.

"Bring them here," Crowley ordered. At the instant their mouths met, he pushed a little extra heat through his body. They kissed lightly for a moment, then suddenly self-conscious, separated. 

Aziraphale said offhand, "We could have been hanged for that not so long ago."

"More likely pilloried and flogged." In response to his doubtful look, Crowley elaborated, "For kissing. After all, male friends kissed in those days. Perhaps not quite like that." With a knowing grin, he went on, "Hanging was reserved for—"

"The Buggery Act."

"Well, the act of buggery."

"Henry VIII," Aziraphale explained, in a donnish tone. "The Buggery Act of 1533. The same year Elizabeth—the first Elizabeth, of course—was born. And that applied only to the, er, act of sodomy. Two men could get away with other methods of pleasure, especially if they were discreet."

Crowley felt himself coloring. Had he even allowed his mind to touch upon that possibility? If not, why was he blushing? "Quite."

As if aware of Crowley's thoughts, Aziraphale waggled his brows. "In any case, my lips are quite comfortable now. Thank you."

"You have only to ask, angel."

"You are too kind, my dear Crowley."

* * *

Crowley insisted on paying for a taxi after the play. Night had fallen and threatening clouds loomed overhead as they emerged from the theater. They walked a ways down the pavement before Crowley hailed a black cab. As they climbed inside, Aziraphale continued to remark on details of the performance. Listening with half an ear, Crowley gave the driver the address. 

Aziraphale sat back, his hands loosely coupled in his lap. He heaved a sigh. "Poor Hamlet!"

"Poor Hamlet!" Crowley repeated. "A spoilt muppet is what he is. How many people died because of him?"

"All of those deaths could be rightly blamed on his parents—and his uncle, that cur."

"What about Polonius?"

"An unfortunate mistake. Hiding behind the curtains, spying. For shame."

"He stabbed the person behind the curtain with murderous intent; not what I'd call a mistake. And, anyway, Polonius was justifiably worried about his daughter. Which brings us to, what about Ophelia?"

"A sad case, I agree. She was very young. And very impressionable."

"Grief-stricken over her dad," the cabdriver proffered. "Who would've been alive but for Hamlet stabbing him through the curtain."

"That!" Crowley gloated. "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern?"

"Faithless."

"He had them murdered!" Crowley countered vehemently.

"They were setting _him_ up to be executed."

"They didn't know that."

Aziraphale's eyes darkened. "Didn't they?"

"Gertrude."

'Shouldn't have married her murdered husband's brother," the cabbie opined. Aziraphale nodded his agreement.

"Claudius. That's a gimme, no question there."

"Yes, he clearly deserved it." Aziraphale agreed. "He not only stole the king's wife, he stole his kingdom."

"You missed out Laertes," the cabdriver piped up.

"He colluded with Claudius to murder Hamlet," Aziraphale said damningly.

"Laertes might have had an iota of justification," Crowley suggested, "considering the rest of his family were dead because of his dear former friend, Hamlet."

"If Claudius had not murdered his father—" Aziraphale began.

"True. But if his father's ghost hadn't—"

"True," Aziraphale granted. "But that's what makes it a tragedy, Crowley."

"Which is why I still prefer the funny ones," Crowley said forcefully.

"Me, too," the cabdriver said.

But Aziraphale was staring at Crowley with an odd expression on his face. "What?" Crowley asked.

"Oh, I—" The angel's smile seemed forced. "Well, of course, they're good, too." And then he let out a small, dismissive laugh. "Actually, I always wondered what happened to Horatio."

"So did I!" came from the driver's seat.

For the remainder of the journey, Aziraphale and the cabdriver chatted about the fragile nature of Horatio's position in the court of the new regime. Crowley left them to it, content to sit back while they floated various theories as to whether Hamlet's friend would have returned to university ("Surely the best place for him."), committed suicide ("Hamlet begged him not to."), or even been put to death ("Oh, dear, I hope not!").

When they arrived at their destination, Aziraphale stepped onto the pavement and took in their surroundings in some confusion while Crowley paid the cabdriver, including a handsome tip. He had apparently expected to be returned to the bookshop. Crowley pointed at the sign above the window. "Dinner."

"Oh, lovely," Aziraphale said, before turning to wave the cabbie on his way. "I am fairly certain I have not been here before."

Here was a Japanese Danish fusion restaurant. "This is why we needed a cab," Aziraphale said on a note of discovery, as they walked inside and were immediately taken to their reserved table. The décor seemed to fascinate him and he looked around for a couple of minutes before turning his attention to the menu. "Have you eaten here?"

"Nope. Good reviews, though."

They sat a while over their meals. Aziraphale was still bubbling with enthusiasm for the day's outing. By the time he put his fork down after his final bite, he seemed to be winding down at last.

"That was excellent. What do you say to a nightcap, Crowley?"

"I say yes." He tapped his wine glass with the edge of his fork. A _ting_ rose sharply, and he quietened it with his finger. "There are a couple of good pubs—bars, if you'd prefer—between here and your shop."

Crowley picked up the bill, reminding Aziraphale again that he had overpaid for their Cornwall trip. As they stepped out into the night, Aziraphale inhaled the damp air with pleasure. He smiled when Crowley casually took his hand. "I was thinking of a very fine, very old single malt Scotch."

"That'll be easy," Crowley assured him.

"Very." Aziraphale regarded him with his head tipped meaningfully to one side. When Crowley raised his brows, the angel said in a confiding tone, "I have some in the shop."

Not trusting his voice owing to the sudden uptick of his heartbeat, Crowley simply tightened his grip.

"Do you know," Aziraphale remarked absently, as they made their way down the pavement, moving as one to avoid others hurrying along, "I couldn't find the definition of 'hooking up' in any of my _many_ dictionaries. Especially as an expression for dating."

"No?" Crowley scrabbled inside his brain, trying to place the significance of the term. He jerked his phone out of his pocket and began a search.

"So I asked one of my regulars if she could explain the difference—and she looked rather shocked. She is an older lady, but apparently better informed than I."

Crowley swallowed. The phone had rapidly turned up several results. "Yeah." He summoned an appropriately repentant expression and tucked the phone away. "I can see why she might." 

"You're not going to tell me?"

"Er, well—" He grimaced. "In my defense, I didn't know, either, angel. Must've missed that part of the discussion on the telly."

"And—?"

"People getting together for the sole purpose of, er, being intimate. Strangers preferred."

'I see. Promiscuity, writ large."

"Honestly, Aziraphale, I didn't—"

"I believe you." Aziraphale smiled catlike. "If I didn't, I wouldn't be inviting you back to my place so late of an evening."

They stepped up to the door of the shop just as Crowley's memory lit up. "That's right!" He followed Aziraphale onto the floor. "You asked if I was courting you. And I said—"

"It's called dating, or hooking up, or something, nowadays."

"Right. Well, hooking up is out of the question. When we get to that point—" He closed his mouth with a snap. 

Aziraphale had stopped and twisted round and was now studying him. Crowley raised his hands and sought valiantly for something to say. "When we get to that point," the angel said composedly, "it will be for more than a night."

Crowley let out a sharp breath. Stepping nearer slowly, he let his hands come to rest on Aziraphale's hips. He kissed the corner of his mouth. "Yes."

Unconcernedly taking hold of his wrist, Aziraphale led him to the back room. He pointed at the sofa and, while Crowley slumped down, legs sprawling, he went to one of the glass cabinets to fetch a decanter filled with rich golden fluid, and two tumblers. "I have the second quarto of _Hamlet_ —well, a very few pages," he said. "Let me just pour these to get you started, and I will bring it out." He handed a glass with a couple of fingers of whiskey to Crowley and set the capped decanter on the desk, finding a clear space for it by the simple expedient of pushing several other things—a couple of books, a stack of paper, a small ancient sculpture—out of the way. He disappeared around the corner.

Holding the tumbler to his nose, Crowley inhaled the whiskey's mix of smoke, vanilla, brine, and a fruity scent that might have been apple. He swirled it slowly before taking a small sip. Quite as good as his favorite, he decided. The sound of footsteps clattering down metal stairs signaled the angel's return. In his hands, protected by a layer of parchment, were a few leaves of a quarto.

He sat next to Crowley and, peeling the parchment wider, set it on the demon's lap. "Act III, Scene 1." Aziraphale's face was sharp with intensity.

"'To be or not to be,'" Crowley read. He smiled slightly to himself. The paper was over four hundred years old, but had been well protected and handled.

Aziraphale drew out another leaf. "Act V, Scene 2."

Peering down at the page, Crowley scanned the words before saying them, "'Good night, sweet prince.'" 

"'And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest,'" Aziraphale said, and sighed heavily. "There are a couple more pages, but those two are the most significant in my collection." He lifted his shoulders in an amused shrug. "They were part of a job lot, tucked inside a copy of _Clarissa_ , of all things."

Crowley shook his head. "And how long ago was that?"

With a thoughtful frown, Aziraphale said, "Couple of hundred years ago?" He slipped the packet off Crowley's lap and meticulously refolded the parchment. After setting it on top of a large book on his desk, he picked up his whiskey and sat once more on the sofa. He raised his glass.

"To Shakespeare," Crowley said. They tapped their glasses together and drank.

With a glint in his eyes, Aziraphale said, "To Hamlet." Crowley laughed and they sipped their whiskey once more. And then he leaned forward and kissed Aziraphale's mouth. The angel made a soft humming sound and allowed his lips to part, just a little. Crowley moved closer, but pulled away suddenly. He took the glass our of Aziraphale's hand and placed it, alongside his tumbler, on the floor at the end of the sofa. Turning back, he found the angel waiting for him, his eyes huge, an uncertain expression in their depths. Crowley slowly took him into his arms and resumed their kiss. This was the first time they had been allowed to go at their own pace, to hold one another close without fear of interruption. They broke briefly for air and Crowley discovered that Aziraphale's hand was beneath his jacket, a warm presence against his ribs. Lowering his mouth once more, he began to explore in turn, smoothly unbuttoning the top of Aziraphale's waistcoat so he could spread his fingers across his chest. Only their murmurings, the quiet sounds of their kisses, and the rustle of fabric disturbed the stillness of the room.

After some minutes, Crowley knew he needed to slow himself down. It was too much all at once and he risked testing Aziraphale's trust. So he drew away, not hurriedly, all the while laying gentling kisses against the angel's temple and cheek, while whispering his name. 

Aziraphale was trembling. "Well," he breathed, and it came out a little ragged. "Well."

Crowley kissed his nose. "I should go."

Nodding, but with his mouth against Crowley's cheek, Aziraphale hummed, "Mm—yes."

It took a fierce strength of will to pull himself out of the angel's arms, to remove his hand from the warmth of his body, to gaze at his mouth and not kiss him again. As Aziraphale's fingers slipped out from under his jacket, Crowley bent over and reached for the glasses of whiskey. He handed one to Aziraphale and drained the other, which he then handed over, as well. "I'll let myself out," he said, and took to his feet.

But at that, Aziraphale also rose. He emptied his glass in a single swallow, too, and placed both glasses back on the floor. Smiling, he took hold of Crowley's hand and walked with him to the front of the shop. There, just inside the door, he said, "Good night, Crowley. Thank you for Shakespeare and dinner."

Crowley kissed him, a casual buss on his cheek. "Good night, angel," he said, and went out onto the pavement. Had he remained a moment longer, he might not have been able to leave at all.

* * *

Over the next few weeks, Crowley devoted himself to the particulars of courtship. He took Aziraphale to the cinema, to plays, and day-long drives to locations one or both of them had once held special. A week before Christmas he promised a dry, warm day at Kew Gardens. The weather, to his immense relief, complied. He watched Aziraphale's face light up as he climbed into the Bentley and saw the large picnic hamper in the back seat.

They arrived mid-day. After parking the Bentley, they walked until they found the perfect spot beneath the trees, a place where the branches soughed overhead and sunshine filtered down. And a place where they were well off the main path and unlikely to be noticed. It was, as he had promised—and hoped for—a wonderfully warm day. The demon shook out a large rug and spread it over the lawn. Together, they unpacked the basket.

Some while later, the basket's contents greatly reduced, Aziraphale sipped his champagne and read to himself while Crowley lay on his back with his head on the angel's lap, more than half dozing.

When Aziraphale chuckled, Crowley forced his eyes open. "What's that you're reading?"

Aziraphale set his glass on the rug. Gazing down at the demon, he brushed a loose lock of hair off his forehead. "Bentham," he replied. "He has a quite engaging style."

Crowley let his head drop back and produced a stentorian snore.

Aziraphale read aloud, "'If then merely out of regard to population it were right that pederasts should be burnt alive, monks ought to be roasted alive by a slow fire.'" 

"Very Bentham," Crowley remarked, still with his eyes closed. "Is that—?"

" _Offences Against One's Self: Pederasty_. He uses 'pederast' here to mean—"

"Two men. No children involved."

"Did you know him?" Aziraphale asked, picking up his flute and savoring a mouthful.

"Not in the biblical sense." Crowley's grin was sharp. "But, I met him. Chatted with all the lights who made my job easier."

"A great pity that humans have attributed so much of evil to one of their greatest gifts. I do not think that was the Almighty's intention when she gave them these physical forms."

"Worked a treat, though, didn't it," Crowley countered dryly.

"That was mankind's doing. In certain parts of the world, anyway. Civilization breeds laws, and laws sometimes strip away nuance."

"Tell Bentham that."

"Oh, I did. He came into the shop a number of times. In fact, he showed this to me. It was not published in his lifetime, not for almost two hundred years. We had some quite lively discussions about it; it, and others of his essays, of course."

Crowley rolled onto his side, pillowing his head on Aziraphale's thigh. He liked the view: Aziraphale, looking the country gentleman with pamphlet in one hand and champagne glass in the other. Aziraphale's eyes were soft with contentment as he gazed down at Crowley. "We could go and see him, if you like," Crowley suggested.

Aziraphale's glass stopped an inch from his mouth. "Last I heard, he had been removed to a safe place."

"That was during World War II, yes. They brought him back." He drew himself up, and with a fluid motion, twisted around and straddled Aziraphale's legs. The angel opened his arms to accommodate him, holding his occupied hands to either side. Crowley leaned forward, and framed Aziraphale's face between his hands.

Aziraphale said with some acerbity, "You are interfering with my reading, demon."

"Am I?" He pressed nearer and planted a lush kiss on the angel's mouth. Some moments passed, and the warm sounds of their lips as they joined and separated in many small kisses were lost in the breeze stirring the branches overhead. When Crowley at last raised his head, well aware that his eyes must be huge and very yellow, it was because it was time to slow down. He breathed quietly against Aziraphale's curls, as his ardor, with inconvenient reluctance, cooled.

In this unhurried courtship, there had been a great deal of kissing and, sometimes, decorous caresses. They had yet to see each other unclothed, or to extend their touch to bare skin. Crowley wanted, badly, to touch, to see the angel laid naked before him, under his hands, under his lips, under him. He believed Aziraphale would soon be open to more, too. But Crowley would wait. His angel was worth waiting for.

Aziraphale's sigh warmed his cheek. He said, with gentle castigation, "You just want me not to read aloud anymore."

"Slander." Crowley eased himself back, placing a hand to his heart. "I would listen to you read the ingredients on a tin of curry. Although it's true, Bentham is pushing it a bit."

Aziraphale snorted. "Well, then, shift yourself, demon. Let us go and see a dead philosopher."

The day was greying and what was left of the sun had long since lost its warmth by the time they reached London. Crowley found a spot to park the Bentley outside the university, and from there they walked the campus grounds until they reached the cloisters. Bentham's "Auto-Icon," as he had deemed it—in actuality his remains, a wax head, and his own preserved clothing—sat in a large wooden cupboard gazing out through glass eyes at the world around him. Students passed by, going in and out of the library next door, unimpressed. Used to visitors contemplating the philosopher's ancient body, they paid as little heed to the angel and the demon who were assessing what was left of the man they both had known. 

"Just his bones," Crowley remarked. "And his hair. The head is kept elsewhere. Students stole it for ransom once."

"You didn't have anything to do with that?"

"No." He shrugged. "A little. They were easy to persuade."

Aziraphale said musingly, "Humans strive for immortality in the strangest ways." He glanced sidelong at Crowley. "I suppose he's one of yours?"

Flicking an eyebrow meaningfully, he replied drolly, "I understand that he and Sir Richard Burton are great pals."

"Well, they were both evangelists in the pursuit of pleasure, which probably wouldn't earn them lodgings upstairs."

"Only, Sir Richard was less scrupulous regarding the age of his pursuit-ees."

Laughing, Aziraphale said, "Not a word, but I take your meaning."

On the walk back to the car, Crowley offered, "Dessert?"

"What a lovely idea." Aziraphale was relaxed and happy and it showed on his face. "Where do you have in mind?"

"There's a nice little ice cream parlor near my flat."

They shared a staggeringly large chocolate sundae. It was embellished with tiny marshmallows, pieces of chocolate biscuit, hundreds-and-thousands, and whipped cream. Eventually, even Aziraphale was defeated, though he forged on long after Crowley gave up. The demon watched him with fascination as the angel continued to pick at the seemingly bottomless treat. Finally Aziraphale sucked in a deep breath and exhaled loudly. Rounding his eyes for comic effect, he let his spoon slide into the glass, and pushed it away.

"That," he proclaimed in worshipful tones, "was splendid!"

They stepped outside into full night. As they settled inside the Bentley, Crowley suggested, "We could stop at my flat; it's only a few streets away. You know, for a drink." He reached for Aziraphale's hand. "Or something."

The angel met and held his gaze, his expression inscrutable. Crowley tried to act unconcerned, and not as if Aziraphale's response was the most important thing in the world at that moment. He couldn't read his thoughts, though he would dearly have liked to. But only a few seconds passed before Aziraphale squeezed his hand and said, "Yes."

Some minutes later, Crowley secured the car and led the way into the building. Aziraphale's fingers were linked with his as they stood in the lift on the way to his floor. He was aware that his heartbeat was uneven and he was probably clenching the angel's hand too tightly. He ushered him down the hall to his flat and unlocked the door. Aziraphale paused at the snake-form circling the doorbell and then bent nearer, giving it closer inspection. He raised his brows, and Crowley mumbled, "It's cool."

Once across the threshold, Aziraphale looked around curiously. Crowley slipped past him so that the door could close and lock behind them. "Have a butcher's," he said, trying for nonchalant and coming up with obviously nervous. "Make yourself at home."

He strode down the hall to the kitchen, listening for Aziraphale's slow footsteps on the floor. He took his time choosing a wine that would complement their dessert. Selection made, his hands and fingers refused to work properly, and it took him several minutes to uncork the bottle and to pour without spilling. Finally, with a glass in each hand, he turned round—and found Aziraphale standing a few feet away, expressionlessly watching him.

Accepting one of the glasses, Aziraphale said, "It's very spacious. And rather austere. The plants are nice. Very … green."

"Easier than pets," Crowley said inanely. And then confessed, "I've never really spent a lot of time here. Well, until the End Time thingy. Since then— Your bookshop's nicer."

Aziraphale's impassive gaze was somehow unsettling. Smiling slightly at Crowley's mention of his bookshop, he held up his glass and waited until Crowley followed suit. "What shall we toast to?" 

"You decide." Crowley's heart was being a nuisance, beating hard and high in his chest. He was afraid he would make a hash of any sentence requiring more than two words.

Aziraphale dropped his eyes and for the length of a few deep breaths he studied the wine in the bowl of his glass as he rotated it in his hand. When he raised his head, his gaze was clear and sure. "To 'or something.'"

Crowley seemed to forget how to breathe. 

Their glasses met in the bright chime of very expensive crystal. Aziraphale took a sip, wordlessly voicing his appreciation. And then, without taking the time to savor Crowley's very fine selection, he raised the glass again and drained the contents. "It's very good," he commented. "You should at least have a sip before—" 

Crowley's insides gripped. "Angel—"

"Go on," Aziraphale said gently, and gave him a smile that was equal parts diffidence and resolution.

Crowley managed a tiny mouthful and then another, held captive by the angel's wide intense stare. The wine tasted of nothing in his mouth; he might have been drinking water. He set the glass on the counter and tipped his head toward the hallway. "That way."

Aziraphale simply nodded.

Crowley went before him to the bedroom and there, at last, his quasi-paralysis finally broke. He took Aziraphale carefully into his arms and lowered his head. They started with slow, respectful kisses, even slower and more respectful caresses. Crowley couldn't believe that the moment he had been hoping for, dreaming about, was finally upon them. The very thought inflamed him and he grew bolder. His desire seemed to arouse Aziraphale as well, for the angel began to initiate kisses of his own and his square-cut hands took to mapping Crowley's chest and back with undisguised intention. They broke for a moment, catching their breath, close held in each other's arms.

"Let me—" Crowley muttered, his fingers at last remembering their function. He undid Aziraphale's bow tie, soon followed by the first buttons of his shirt. He did not stop until he could replace his fingers with his lips, tracing the line of Aziraphale's throat, the curve of his shoulder. All the while, he continued to release buttons from their holes. Aziraphale moaned as Crowley's hands parted the edges of his waistcoat and shirt and came to lie against bare flesh. And to explore.

It wasn't long before Aziraphale, breath hissing between his teeth, drew away so that he could work his hands under Crowley's shirt. Crowley stepped back and yanked the shirt, tie, and chain over his head, and tossed them onto the floor on the other side of the bed. The chain landed with a small rattle, the clothes with a quiet thud. They came back together, and Aziraphale moved his focus to the snake belt. He extricated the end tip from the buckle and, with the belt out of the way, he released the clasp at the waistband of Crowley's trousers. With agonizing deliberation, he tugged the zip down and parted his flies. For his part, Crowley, his breathing rushed and uneven, dealt with the angel's braces, a seeming myriad more of buttons and the almost impenetrable resistance of silken underthings.

When at last they stood unclad, pressed skin to skin, Crowley hesitated. He studied Aziraphale's flushed face, his half-closed eyes, his parted lips made rosy by their kisses. The angel raised his head and gazed into Crowley's eyes. If the demon had been seeking permission, it was there, in his face, in the warmth of his smile.

But to his surprise, Aziraphale made the first move. He captured his hand and slowly kissed each knuckle, one after the other. And then he guided him to the bed where he urged him down, first to sit on the edge of the mattress, and then down again, to lie on his back. "Aziraphale?" Crowley whispered. But Aziraphale shushed him, and came to lie next to him, one leg sliding over his, his own need undeniable where it strained against his thigh. Their skin was hot where their bodies met. He began to kiss him again, and his kisses were wonderfully, provokingly intimate, unhurried, luxurious. Pleasure and desire rushed in Crowley's veins, but he was allowed to do nothing to reciprocate, and in truth he wanted nothing more than to let Aziraphale have his way.

The angel prowled down the length of Crowley's body, licking him, tasting him, fondling him. He made soft approving noises as Crowley responded to each new thing. With impressively knowing strokes and a quite expert use of his mouth, he woke desire in every nerve ending. And when Crowley was on the precipice, moaning the angel's name, his body pushing helplessly into his touch, Aziraphale took him into his mouth. It was then that Crowley truly understood the miracle of the human form, of its immense capacity for extraordinary pleasure, and for its incomparable gift of a transcendent release.

* * *

Crowley had never been cherished before. As his heart rate slowed to normal, to a well earned lower than normal, he decided that he could easily fall into a happy coma. He lay cradled in Aziraphale's arms, a boneless human-shaped creature being adored with quieting lips upon his forehead, his eyelids, his mouth. But there was enough of his consciousness—and conscience—to remind him that he still had a part in this, that there was cherishing for him to do as well. But when he levered himself up and onto an elbow and pushed Aziraphale onto his back so that he could begin applying himself to the angel's pleasure, Aziraphale caught his hands and held them. "Aziraphale—"

The angel drew him down for a sleepy kiss. "No need."

"But—"

Aziraphale's laugh was wry, the softest of sounds. "You did the work for both of us."

At that, Crowley folded him, warm and acquiescent, into his arms, and cuddled him close. He had lived since his creation without ever knowing a moment like this. The pleasure he had experienced had been sublime, spectacular. But this—this intimacy, this trust, this affection—these were the makings of love. 

Wondering what Aziraphale might think of these thoughts, Crowley drifted into a shallow state of awareness. He and Aziraphale were sharing a pillow, and their legs were twined about each other. He didn't mean to sleep, wanting to record everything about these moments in the deepest part of his mind, so he could never forget them, so they could never be taken away from him.

He woke to the velvety sensation of Aziraphale's fingers on his chest, absently circling a nipple. "Hello, demon," Aziraphale greeted him, his voice low and warm. 

"Hmm." Crowley stretched, reveling in his new state of exhaustion and the illicit warmth and feel of Aziraphale's skin as his movement brought him up tight all along the length of him.

Aziraphale bent forward and kissed him with great attention to detail. "You know," he said, his expression speculative, "one would think that you—" He hesitated, as if unsure how—or even if—to proceed. "Well, this is merely an observation, you understand. But—"

Crowley was wide awake now. "But?"

"One would think that you had never actually—"

"Of course I hadn't," Crowley said abruptly. He rolled over, pushing Aziraphale onto his back. He nudged his legs apart and settled in between them. "Who would I have done that with?"

Aziraphale appeared genuinely surprised. "You're a demon."

"Not that kind." Rocking his hips experimentally, he was pleased when Aziraphale gasped. "You, however, one might think that _you_ —"

Aziraphale actually smirked. "Books."

Charmed, Crowley laughed, "My angel reads porn?"

Aziraphale pursed his lips. "Religious texts, for the most part, as you know. Have you never read the Song of Solomon?" 

"Nope. I was there." Crowley lowered his mouth to Aziraphale's jaw. He trailed small sharp kisses along the column of his throat, teeth and lips raising gooseflesh on Aziraphale's skin. He flexed his hips again, pleased at the unmistakable response he was getting. "So you learned all this—" He glided a hand down Aziraphale's flank to his hip. "—from the Bible? Oh, and the occasional tawdry mystery?"

Breathing a little harder, Aziraphale replied, "Humans have written about love since they first applied a sharp point to damp clay. All of the religions speak to it, often in the most rustic terms. And, yes, those occasional tawdry mysteries sometimes contain shockingly explicit details."

Crowley had stopped moving. "Love?"

"Do not let it distress you," Aziraphale said perceptively. He went on kindly, "I don't expect you to feel—"

"Hardly something the Almighty would approve of, though, is it." He lowered his head for another slow, wanton kiss while rolling his hips, creating even more friction. Aziraphale shuddered. "An angel in love with a demon."

"Perhaps—" Aziraphale caught his breath; he seemed to have difficulty speaking. "Perhaps—" he tried again, then groaned as Crowley scraped against him. "Perhaps," he whispered, his voice a broken rasp, "it's the very thing—" He pushed upwards, meeting Crowley's thrust."—she would approve of."

Mouth close against the angel's ear, Crowley murmured, "So she might not object if a demon was also in love with an angel?"

Aziraphale looked up, helpless, needy. "How could she?" His fingers flowed down Crowley's back, and he grasped his hips, holding him in place as he surged up against him. Groaning out loud, Crowley bore him back down and, between them, they found the perfect rhythm.

* * *

Crowley woke alone. He went from deeply asleep to fully awake in a second. The bed beside him was cold. He flung the duvet off and sat up. The flat was completely still. Used to that sound, the sound of utter emptiness, he knew that Aziraphale had gone. He cast a quick glance around, but there was not even a trace of him.

Strangely enraged—he had expected that they would have the morning together—Crowley gathered his clothes, freshened them with a touch, spent longer than it took to dress to quell his hair, and was out the door of his flat in under a minute.

His long legs scissored along the pavement as he strode toward the bookshop. He normally allowed fifteen to twenty minutes to get there. This time he was plunging through the door in almost half that time.

The angel must have sensed him coming, for he stood waiting under the basilica skylight, hands held together at his waist, his face relaxed and welcoming. A few feet away, all of his anger suddenly gone, Crowley lurched to a stop. Aziraphale took the few steps needed to close the distance between them. To Crowley's amazement, the angel kissed him, not a peck on the cheek, nor a brush of the lips at the corner of the mouth, but a comprehensive meeting of mouths. 

Opening his eyes slowly as he drew away, Aziraphale cocked his head to the side. "Come to my back room, Mr Crowley?"

Crowley was wholly undone by the playful gleam in Aziraphale's eyes. "Right," he muttered, and followed as Aziraphale wended his way through the stacks and desks. He stopped and turned once they were protected from his customers' eyes and reached out. Crowley stepped into his arms. This second kiss was equally wonderful, equally intimate, and very effectively reset Crowley's emotions.

Aziraphale drew back, just a few inches. "You didn't see my note."

"Note?"

"On the pillow. I ought to have chosen somewhere less likely to be disturbed."

Feeling a complete fool, Crowley didn't even try to defend himself. "Have you eaten?"

"No time." Aziraphale came closer to rub his cheek against Crowley's jaw, murmuring his pleasure at this gentle intimacy. "I fell asleep—I rarely ever sleep—and was late opening."

Crowley took a deep breath, inhaling Aziraphale's scent, his cologne. "I'll get something. Be right back."

Holding him in place, Aziraphale shook his head. "I'm closing early today. Perhaps lunch?"

"Lunch is good." But then Crowley glanced over at the sofa, regarded it speculatively, then looked questioningly back at Aziraphale. The angel shook his head, side to side. "I have a perfectly comfortable bed upstairs. Perhaps, after lunch—?"

"Yes," Crowley agreed fervently. He stepped away. "Right. I'll, er, just occupy myself. How about tea?"

"Tea would be lovely."

It seemed to Crowley that for every tick of the clock a decade crept by. He passed the hours with phone in hand, and even managed a short nap. As he nodded off, he imagined what kind of bed Aziraphale might have upstairs. Something from a century or more ago, surely. Perhaps one of those with a canopy and heavy drapes. On the mattress would be a plain white counterpane, probably edged with tiny fiddly blue flowers…. He slept.

When he woke, it was because he was being kissed. He gazed up into Aziraphale's face, so beautiful and so full of affection, and he felt again that clutching sensation in his insides. He had never loved anyone before, and he was discovering that it was more than a little terrifying.

"Roust yourself, demon." Aziraphale held out his hands. Blinking to clear his vision, Crowley shifted onto his bottom and allowed the angel to pull him onto his feet. "I'm famished."

Crowley yawned and stretched and gave himself an overall shake. He raised his arms high overhead, which caused his shirt to work free of his trousers. A warm hand, fingers spread wide, came to lie upon his abdomen. He went completely still, afraid that if he moved, Aziraphale would withdraw that calmly brazen touch.

But he need not have worried: the angel was intent on exploration, his hand smoothly delving beneath Crowley's waistband. He looked directly into Crowley's eyes. "We can eat later." His voice, thick with intention, was as arousing as the hand that was searching ever lower. 

Crowley exhaled, flattening his belly to grant Aziraphale greater access. "Here?" he asked.

In response, Aziraphale slipped his hand free. "Upstairs." Crowley opened his mouth to object, but it was muffled by Aziraphale's kiss.

Aziraphale, a little pink about the ears, took a step away and let his hands fall to his sides. "Upstairs," he said again. "I'll bring wine." He turned away to his cabinet, leaving Crowley feeling as though he'd been run over. 

But, insides aflutter, he made his way out of the back room, past the kitchenette, and into the part of the shop where the spiral stair reached upwards to the first floor. As he trotted up the stairs, skipping every other, and sometimes every third, step, he wished he had told Aziraphale that no alcohol was required. At the landing, he exited left—to go right would take him onto the circular landing and the highest tier of books in the shop. He went down a short hallway. A small room, stacked high with books and scrolls, was on one side. Opposite it was the bedroom, and it was unexpectedly tidy.

He stopped cold. Lain atop the bed was a white counterpane with small blue flowers around the edge. Crowley was still standing there, staring, when Aziraphale came up behind him.

"Problem?" he asked.

"No." He swiveled on his heel and reached for the glasses.

But Aziraphale had apparently seen something in his face that gave him pause. "Explain," he said.

Heedfully freeing the stems from Aziraphale's fingers, Crowley tried to make light of his reaction. "Nice counterpane."

A frown twitched across Aziraphale's face. He smiled uncertainly. "Paris. Quite a number of years ago."

"Ah." They stared into each other's eyes, Aziraphale silently willing him to elaborate; Crowley suddenly afraid of speaking the truth. He made a show of surveying the room for an open surface where Aziraphale could pour. Choosing the top of a large, heavy chest of drawers, which was beneath a high window, Crowley crossed the room and set the bases down on the corner. As Aziraphale came alongside him, Crowley said weakly, "I think I've seen it before." He nodded toward the bed. "That."

Concentrating on pouring the wine, Aziraphale did not at first say anything. As he straightened up, extending a glass to Crowley, he murmured, "You mean, it's possible you've been in here before." He gestured with a quick lift of his chin toward his bed.

Crowley took the wine and nodded. 

"Ah." He glanced from the bedspread back to Crowley's pained expression. "Perhaps it just means that your memory is returning."

"I don't want it to."

"Why not?"

"They took it away for a reason."

"'They?'"

"The Almighty, whoever. Aziraphale—"

"Shh. Make a toast."

Held captive by Aziraphale's fathomless grey eyes, Crowley felt the sharp tattoo of his heart begin to slow. "To us," he whispered. Even as he spoke, he sensed the fragility of what they shared. He was a demon, in thrall to Hell. Aziraphale was an angel, beholden to Heaven. How could they make this work when at any given moment they might have to answer to their masters? He forced himself to breathe in and out slowly, to smother the panic that threatened to take hold. They were here, now. He knew he was loved. And, for his part, the love he felt for the angel was so strong that he would do anything not to lose him. "To us," he repeated, and this time he put the power of will behind it.

Aziraphale smiled his uncomplicated, sweet smile, the one that gave warmth and strength to Crowley's heart. He tapped his glass against Crowley's and they drank. And then Aziraphale took his hand and led him to the bed.

* * *

The day had ended by the time Crowley woke. A smooth palm with trailing fingers was coursing down his arm to the back of his hand. There it halted and floated back up to his shoulder. It repeated this circuit several times as awareness filtered back into his brain. Aziraphale kissed him lightly on the forehead. "I know you're awake." His voice was tinged with amusement.

Crowley forced his eyes open. He murmured a greeting, then angled his head to match their mouths together. They lay for a some time like that, indulging in unhurried, tender kisses. After a while, Aziraphale said wistfully, "I am still hungry, you know."

Crowley had found that his hand was cupping Aziraphale's bottom. He gave it a squeeze, and pulled him inexorably closer. "For food," Aziraphale said, affably reproving. "More of that—" He brushed his mouth against Crowley's temple. "—will have to wait until later."

It would have suited Crowley to remain in the shop. He could order something for delivery. But Aziraphale wanted fresh air and something sweet. Out on the pavement, Aziraphale murmured his appreciation, rolling his shoulders back and throwing his chest out as he inhaled deeply. He took in their surroundings—which must be as familiar to him as his front door—as if they were indescribably wonderful. Unable to resist, Crowley was infected with the angel's cheerfulness. With night had come a damp chill, penetrating Crowley's bones. It was at such times that he had once cursed the mortal form he wore. But with Aziraphale's hand in his and the angel walking close beside him, he found he was in too good a mood to care. 

They chose a small cafe where they ordered tea and cake. Aziraphale insisted on splitting the cake between them. Crowley watched him eat, the angel's tiny sounds of appreciation a constant reminder that they would soon return to Aziraphale's bed. With the white counterpane and tiny blue flowers. Crowley frowned reflexively.

As if interpreting his expression, Aziraphale said, "Tadfield."

Crowley's heart skipped a beat. He raised his brows, not encouragingly.

"You said you were there. I told you that I was there, too. We neither of us remembers the other."

"Aziraphale—"

The angel made no attempt to conceal his exasperation. "What is it that you are afraid to remember, Crowley?"

Gripping his mug tightly, Crowley replied, "It's not an accident that we don't remember. There has to be a reason."

Undaunted, Aziraphale persisted, "But must it be because of _us_? You and me?" He set down his fork, studiously placing it just so on the side of the plate. "You thought that she," he raised his eyes heavenward, "stripped the memories of all demons and angels. Perhaps you're right."

"And if I'm not?" Crowley's voice was raspy and edged with frustration. "What if we were enemies? What if we were trying to kill each other? Be honest, Aziraphale, you don't think the rest of our kind were affected."

Aziraphale indicated his agreement with a combination nod and shrug. "You're quite right. I don't. But—" Aziraphale folded his hands on the table and bent forward. "You were there to help, and so was I. Why should we have fought?"

Crowley opened his mouth, closed it. "All right, maybe we didn't. Maybe—" He raised his hands and waved them wildly, demanding plaintively, "Then why make us forget?"

"Crowley," Aziraphale said gently, "you're still assuming it's about us."

"Well, it is! It's our memories!"

Aziraphale's smile was a bit jaded. "Being accountable to no one means you can do what you like without any reason whatsoever."

Folding his arms hard across his chest, Crowley slumped back in his chair. "And if it is about us? And not just one of her whims?"

Aziraphale picked up his mug and drank. "What has it accomplished? I seem to recall the important events of my life, before the creation of mankind and after. If, perhaps, we had met before, maybe even knew each other, surely we would not have been _allowed_ to meet and get to know one another other again. If that was the purpose of making us forget." 

Crowley's fingers loosened, just enough to ease incipient cramp. He forced himself to think it through, despite the gnawing dread working inside his chest. "We … _shouldn't_ have been able to meet. That makes sense."

"If that had been her intention." Aziraphale straightened his shoulders and raised his chin. "Again, presuming that she was responsible." He patted the corners of his mouth clean of nonexistent crumbs and went on, before Crowley could fully grasp the implication of what he'd said. "It seems a logical conclusion, yes. But I do believe," he said confidentially, "that it has to do with what happened in Tadfield."

"Tadfield." Crowley did not even like the sound of the name in his mouth.

"I think I told you once that my superior is not pleased with me. It's because of what happened there."

"Your superior …?"

"The Archangel Gabriel."

Crowley grimaced. "Mine isn't happy with me, either. Lord Beelzebub. Pretty much the same reason, though I can't say I was ever her favorite."

"I recall seeing them together. There." His mouth twisted with derision. "They were so desperate for their war. What I went through to stop them! Some day I'll tell you that story." He concluded firmly, "Well, I'm glad they were thwarted."

That gnawing sensation intensified. "Aziraphale."

Aziraphale's shoulders dropped. Defeated, he said, "It bothers you so much."

"It worries me not knowing what we're dealing with, angel. Gabriel, Beelzebub. They aren't to be trifled with."

Aziraphale allowed his own frustration to show and then tempered it. "No." With a whimsical look, he said, "So you would not want to drive up to Oxfordshire to have a nose round?"

Crowley bared his teeth. "I really wouldn't."

"I see." Picking up his fork, Aziraphale contemplated the remains of the cake. "Tell me one thing."

Crowley regarded him charily.

"What was it you did in Tadfield? You know, how did you get through to Adam? I don't remember that it was anything that I did, though we spoke." 

It came to him with blinding clarity. "I stopped time," Crowley whispered. "But it wasn't because of him—I mean, it was—but there was something important—" All of a sudden, he was there on the tarmac, and he was aware that he was at risk of losing the most precious thing in his life…. Aziraphale's hand closed over his wrist. Crowley stared at him in some confusion. The concern in the angel's face brought him back to himself.

"Never mind." Aziraphale set his serviette onto the table next to his plate. With a reassuring smile, he said, "You're right. It's behind us. Whoever is responsible, there is nothing we can do about it." The last of the cake remained untouched. "I've had enough. You?"

That night, in Aziraphale's bed, Crowley thought of nothing except the generous, loving touch of Aziraphale's hands and the soft fervor of his lips, the insistent rhythm of his movements where their bodies met, and the soaring, breathtaking pleasure that bestowed a merciful amnesia upon him. Later, exhausted, he lay sheltered in the angel's arms and slept dreamlessly through the night.

Aziraphale did not bring up Tadfield or the question of their memories again. And the next time Crowley visited his bed, the white counterpane with the tiny blue flowers around the edge was gone.

* * *

Christmas came, bringing with it slushy snow and cold. Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale was attached to any religion save the universal God that had created them, and she wasn't a religion but a being full of contradictions and startling surprises—some of them good, some of them terrifyingly awful, some of them only bearable. So, when Aziraphale proposed seeing the lights on Christmas Eve, Crowley agreed, even though they were just secular decorations for them, and he'd seem pretty lights, or ones like them, at least a thousand times before. 

It was colder and wetter than Crowley would have liked. But Aziraphale cooed at the huge angels painted with electrical brilliance, wings spread wide, suspended between the buildings lining Piccadilly and Regent Streets. They wandered the arcades, avoiding small, ornamented Christmas trees and ducking sparkling star shapes that dangled from the ceilings. Impervious to the glittering flakes and frigid rain which fell but never landed on them, thanks to Aziraphale, they walked among miserable humans who had no choice but to be out, on their way home or to work, and happy ones who, like Aziraphale, were here to admire the Christmas displays. Everywhere on the street the lights were reflected in pools of melting snow mixed with swirls of iridescent road oil. Along with carols playing from concealed speakers, there was the occasional song of London: the two-tone warble of emergency vehicles wailing in the distance.

Aziraphale indulged himself with freshly roasted chestnuts purchased from a street vendor, undeterred by Crowley's, "Those'll kill you."

"Only if I were human," he countered. "And probably not, even then. Hmm. Here, have one."

Happily munching, Aziraphale took the time to confer a few blessings: sometimes no more than a touch of warmth, or the easing of grief, and once a healing for someone who would not have lived to see the new year. When they encountered an elderly man with an arthritic dog, and the animal suddenly began to walk pain-free, Crowley muttered, "Now you're just showing off."

"Angels do not show off," Aziraphale asserted. His cheeks were pink and his eyes shone like stars. "In fact, if you wanted to, you could do a tiny miracle or two." 

Crowley lowered his head and kissed his chilled mouth. "Not supposed to, y'know, make humans happy. But, let's see—" He raised his hand and snapped his fingers. Overhead, all of the lights in all of the displays blazed like jewels made of crystalline sunshine, shockingly and impossibly bright. People on the street stopped and goggled, exclaiming their astonishment and delight. Phones came up, fingers poised over the camera button. But before any pictures could be taken, Crowley snapped his fingers again, and the lights reverted to their normal luminescence. Aziraphale's face suffused with joy. "Time for a drink," he said, enchanted.

Back at the book shop, Aziraphale produced a very welcome and very potent whiskey which they savored in his backroom. They sat for a while on the sofa, kissing and drinking—until the kissing became something far more. It was near midnight, after a lingering goodbye, before Crowley left. He had not been home for some days, and his plants were undoubtedly in dire need of attention. He had not wanted to leave the angel's arms, but Aziraphale had been on the side of the plants. With a reminiscent smile on his still warm lips, he took himself back to his flat.

* * *

Shortly after dawn on Christmas morning, grimacing in the face of a bone-chilling rain, he was an almost solitary figure navigating the streets back to the book shop. The lock clicked open promptly at his approach. Crowley shouted Aziraphale's name as he walked down the center aisle before turning left toward the backroom. "In here!" Aziraphale answered.

Crowley found him in the kitchenette, bent over the open door of the tiny, ancient oven. The room was redolent with warmed scones, rolls, and pastries. Aziraphale took the plate out and carried it to the small table off the backroom where they sometimes shared a glass. Draped with a holly berry-patterned tablecloth, it was set now with delicate plates and heavy cutlery, and at the corner of each plate, a china mug. Crowley guessed that the latter was for the mulled wine that scented the air.

Free at last to give him a proper greeting, Crowley reeled the angel into his arms and kissed him.

"Hmm." Aziraphale's murmur came from deep in his throat; Crowley felt the sound of it reverberate where their chests met. After a moment, Aziraphale tilted his head back so that he could gaze into Crowley's eyes. "Merry Christmas, demon."

"Merry Christmas, angel." They kissed again, a gentle, affectionate kiss.

Aziraphale captured Crowley's wrists and stepped out of his embrace. "The wine, before it stews."

As the angel hurried away, Crowley noticed a brightly wrapped package sitting on a small occasional table a few feet away. He placed the package he had brought with him on top of it. It was enclosed in silver paper and tied with a tartan ribbon in shades of blue. "Anything I can do to help?" he asked.

Aziraphale came into the room holding in one hand a large decanter of a jewel-like, ruby-colored wine swirling with slices of satsuma and tiny spices, and in the other a tea strainer. "I think that's everything." He gestured to Crowley to sit and poured their wine. Using his fork, he hooked out a slice of satsuma for each of their cups, then poured wine into them nearly to their brims. At the last moment, he remembered to remove the apron from his waist and hung it off the back of his chair before sitting down.

Raising his mug, Crowley smiled into Aziraphale's bright eyes. "To—?"

"Us, of course." Their mugs met with a porcelain ring. After a sip, Aziraphale took up the tongs to help himself to a scone. While buttering it lavishly, he asked, "How was your garden?"

"Hardly a garden," Crowley protested mildly. "More a mini-conservatory. They were In very good shape, actually."

"Oh, that's good."

Crowley regarded him with some suspicion. "I was surprised because it's been a few days and they'd normally have been a bit wilty."

Chewing with pleasure, Aziraphale simply raised his brows.

Narrowing his eyes, Crowley said, "What did you do, Aziraphale?"

Aziraphale swallowed and took a sip of wine before answering. "Nothing, really."

"I think you gave them a blessing."

Aziraphale smiled with a hint of playfulness as he put another small piece into his mouth. "Perhaps a negligible one."

"I have a different way of caring for them—"

"Yes, and it can be rather harsh." Before Crowley could complain, Aziraphale went on, "It's my fault, you know, that you haven't been around to care for them properly." He was all innocence. "It was a most insignificant blessing, I assure you."

Lifting his mug to his lips, Crowley muttered, "My downstairs neighbor won't thank you."

"Oh?"

"I give her all the spoiled ones. She loves to nurse them back to health. If you think I have a lot of plants, you should see her flat."

"I see." Aziraphale's expression indicated that he was pleasantly impressed. "I shall bear that in mind."

Crowley set his mug down and licked his lips. He reached for Aziraphale's hand and kissed it.

With no warning, Aziraphale abruptly stood up and jerked free. The table shook, setting everything rocking violently. Crowley caught the decanter but was unable to keep the mugs from toppling over and spilling their contents onto the tablecloth. He opened his mouth, but Aziraphale cast one hasty, horrified look his way. " _Crowley!_ "

Scrambling out of the chair, Crowley reached his feet just as a shape took form not far from him. It coalesced with a small fizzing sound in the opening that gave way to the center of the bookshop, effectively blocking them in. It was the Archangel Gabriel.

"Gabriel!" Aziraphale stepped forward so that he stood a little in front of Crowley. The demon hissed softly and came up alongside him.

Fully formed, the Archangel gave Aziraphale a withering look. He spared only a glance for Crowley. "Is this an inconvenient time, Aziraphale?" the Archangel asked, and there was no missing the sarcasm in his voice.

"Of—of course not," Aziraphale replied, a shaky smile forced onto his lips. Crowley started to move, but Aziraphale threw out his hand. It might have been angelic power, or it might simply have been the fear radiating off him, but Crowley stilled. "What can I do for you?"

At that moment, the air gathered again. There was a loud _snap_ , and Beelzebub appeared. She moved her shoulders back and forth, as if settling invisible feathers, noted where Gabriel stood, and joined him.

"You're late," Gabriel complained.

Beelzebub was indifferent. "Caught in traffic." She shrugged at his disbelief. "Hell is a busy place." She turned her cold stare on Crowley, took in the angel next to him, and her mouth twisted into a sneer. "You were right."

"Told you he'd be here."

"Yeah, you said that."

Crowley began, "What's this ab—?"

Gabriel barked, "Shut up, demon. You, too, Aziraphale." This, even though Aziraphale had said nothing since before Lord Beelzebub's arrival. The Archangel bristled with self-righteousness. To Beelzebub, he said, "Do you smell it? They reek of each other."

"Yeah. They reek." The Lord of Hell radiated resentful boredom. "Can we get on with it?"

"Right," Gabriel said. "You're right." He brought his hands together in a loud clap, and he looked pleased when Aziraphale jumped. "Well, this is going to require some—" He made air quotes with both hands. "—background, as they say. So you'll appreciate it all the more when we reach the big—" More air quotes. "—reveal."

Beelzebub said without preamble, "We took away your memories."

"Beez!" Gabriel's exclamation was a dismayed half shout, half whine.

She flicked a dismissive look at him. "Haven't got all day, Gabe." 

He shook out his shoulders and took a deep breath. His cheeks were nearly the shade of the mulled wine.

Aziraphale spoke in an admirably cordial manner. "You took away our memories. May I ask why?"

"Because," Gabriel said angrily, "you forgot your place. You worked against Heaven, Aziraphale. You abandoned your troop. Because of you—and him—the war didn't happen." He favored Crowley with an equally spiteful glare. "You and your—" He spent a few seconds seeking a word that would adequately describe Crowley, and after apparently coming up with nothing he felt comfortable saying aloud, snarled, "—your _demon_ got that backward child and his friends to destroy the Four Horsemen—"

"That was nothing to do with us," Crowley interjected.

Beelzebub snapped, "Shut it, traitor!"

To Aziraphale, Gabriel went on, "Because of the two of you, six millennia of planning and preparation went down the drain."

His voice very quiet, Aziraphale said, "For which you did try to murder us."

Gabriel's eyes narrowed. He nodded his head emphatically. "And it took us a while to figure out why that didn't work." His face warped as if he were squeamish. "And when we did—"

"You switched bodies," Beelzebub stated. "A demon inhabiting an angel's body. Disgusting."

"We'd be dead otherwise," Aziraphale pointed out reasonably. His hands were clasped tightly across his middle, betraying his discomfort, but he spoke smoothly, as if this were a normal conversation. "Indeed, I thought you would try again."

The muscles in Gabriel's jaws worked furiously. "She—" He inclined his head toward the ceiling. "—wouldn't let us. She was a little," he spoke with careful emphasis, "against the whole final punishment thing."

Crowley barely kept from snorting. "You mean, she didn't approve of your killing us."

"But she did agree that you should be punished," Gabriel said, pettily.

"So she let us take away your memories." Beelzebub's tone, in contrast, was as flat as her expression.

"Beez," Gabriel sighed.

"But only of each other. And not permanently; very insistent she was about that." Her voice was a disinterested drone. "If she'd asked me, I'd've told her to leave you brain dead. But she said to Gabe that messing up your memories would suffice, and you'd get back about your business." She cut her eyes toward Crowley, and there was intense annoyance in them. "I just hoped you'd stop being a nuisance."

Resigned, Gabriel put in, "But, then, of course—"

Aziraphale said, "We met."

"Yes," Gabriel agreed heavily. "You met." His face darkened. "You're fucking a demon, Aziraphale!" he bellowed. Crowley saw the spasm that rippled across Aziraphale's shoulders and unthinkingly crushed his own hands into fists. "You have no idea how embarrassing that is. I told the Almighty," Gabriel assured him, "and I showed her the observation pictures. Well—let's just say that she wasn't pleased."

Aziraphale stood motionless, yet he kept his head up and his spine showed no sign of bending. "And?" he prodded. His tone was deferential but his civility only served as counterpoint to Gabriel's touchpaper temper. Crowley was filled with respect, though the coil inside him grew even tighter, preparing him for whatever useless thing he might do if the Archangel's anger turned physical

Gabriel's eyes bulged, very lilac, very intense. "She still wouldn't let us—" He did not complete the sentence, though no one had any doubt what was missed out unsaid. "But she finally agreed that you deserved to be punished. Again. Now." Steadying himself with a deep breath, Gabriel went on, "And she chose it herself, your punishment. Quite elegant, really." The meanness rekindled in his eyes. "And you have no one to blame but yourselves. You see, we're—"

"You get your memories back," Beelzebub said.

"Beez!" Gabriel roared.

She ignored him.

"Is that all?" Crowley asked, faintly amused.

Gabriel fixed him with a narrow stare before turning back to Aziraphale. He straightened his tie, snugging it up against his collar as if he had throttling on his mind. "It'll be enough," he said silkily. "You see, in my role as supervisor, Aziraphale, I get to choose _how_ you get your memories back."

Aziraphale's hands convulsed around each other. Before he could do anything more, Gabriel snapped his fingers and the angel went utterly motionless, staring into nothing, a vague smile on his vacuous face.

"What did you—!" Crowley growled and lurched forward. Beelzebub turned her ice-blue eyes on him, sharp as daggers, and he froze in place, not by choice.

"At the moment," Gabriel explained complacently, "he has no memories at all."

"You—!"

"Control your demon, Beez, or I'll do it for you."

Lord Beelzebub tilted a brow in Crowley's direction but otherwise did nothing. He felt the bands of restriction ease and then vanish altogether.

Gabriel, gratified by Aziraphale's abnormal passivity, remarked, "Now that's how he should've been all along." He grinned at Crowley, his callousness unbearable. "Now I will give him back his memories." There was nothing of kindness nor compassion in his expression. "Well, some of them, anyway. The ones he had before we took them away." He snapped his fingers again, and Aziraphale was once more Aziraphale, animate and whole. But it seemed to take him a moment to reorient himself. He glanced nervously around the room, flinching at sight of Gabriel and startling a little as he recognized Beelzebub. And then he spotted Crowley and alarm sparked in his eyes. Turning away immediately, he said confused, "Gabriel." His voice was strained. "What are you—?"

Rolling her eyes, Beelzebub groaned, "Just finish it up." 

Gabriel raised a brow, still smiling that mocking smile. "The next part is the best of all. Now you get your most recent memories back, Aziraphale." He waved his hand and Aziraphale went blank-faced again, inert as a statue. Directing himself to Crowley, Gabriel purred, "You knew him for _six thousand years_ , demon. And in all that time, you never succeeded in fucking him. How do you think he's going to feel when he remembers that?" He snapped his fingers. "There you go, Aziraphale. All of your memories, intact. Which is more than I can say for you."

At first nothing happened. But then the color drained from Aziraphale's face, and he shuddered. For the second time in almost as many minutes it was clear that he was being forced to take his bearings. The presence of the Archangel and the demon lord, both viewing him as if on he were on display, visibly disconcerted him. And then, as his memories fully reintegrated, he twisted sideways to look at Crowley, shock, dismay, and—worst of all—betrayal laying claim to his features in rapid succession.

"Your turn, Beez," Gabriel invited. "Do it the way I did it. He knows what to expect now. Not that he'll remember until you're done." The Archangel barked a laugh at his own joke.

"Can't be bothered," she said curtly, and gave her wrist a turn. "There you go, murderer."

Crowley staggered. His mind was suddenly a riot of images. Every memory that he had lost—every single one—involved Aziraphale. The Garden of Eden. Mesopotamia. Golgotha. Every part of the globe they had visited, every period of time. Losing him, or so he had thought, when Aziraphale had been discorporated. The overwhelming relief when the angel had manifested in the bar where Crowley had been studiously getting plastered, not really there except for his voice and a shimmer of image and personality, but _alive_. His reincorporation, in this familiar form, at the air base in Tadfield, thanks to Adam the Antichrist. The two of them, acquaintances, friends. The best of friends. And now—lovers. "Aziraphale," he breathed.

But Aziraphale had bowed his head and would not look at him.

Gabriel took a step closer to the angel, coming to stand right in front of him so that Aziraphale was forced to look up or stare at his chest. "You are such an idiot." Each word was laden with scorn. "He's a _demon_ , Aziraphale. What did you expect?"

Aziraphale closed his eyes and said nothing.

Something precious, fragile, something that should never have known the gift of life, shriveled inside Crowley. He faced Beelzebub. "What now?" His voice was harsh, even a little reckless. "Back to Hell?"

Beelzebub scoffed, "Wouldn't have you." With the first intimation that she had any feelings about any of this, she went on, with what sounded almost like regret, "You sullied an angel, Crowley. That should've landed you a promotion, at the very least. You'd've been a legend." Her lip curled and her laugh was stony. "But you did it wrong. You fell in love with him, you moron." She jerked her head toward Aziraphale, who hadn't moved. "But he'll hate you now for what you did. So the best thing for everyone is, you get to stay here." And apparently because she couldn't help herself, she added with some relish, "And enjoy eternity."

Gabriel chuckled, eyes lit with cruel satisfaction. 

"And me?" Aziraphale sounded hollow. Crowley's heart broke.

Gabriel sighed. "Heaven's done with you, Aziraphale." His smile was as vindictive as his words. "Defiled, disgraced—probably even deflowered. You must know you're not wanted."

It would be so easy to thrust a hand into the gloating bastard's chest and rip out his pointless heart. Crowley would die in the doing, would undoubtedly be destroyed, but if nothing else, Aziraphale would know—

Gabriel shifted slightly toward him, his ludicrously beautiful eyes filled with warning. Crowley couldn't have concealed his loathing if he had tried. A frigid smile lifted the corners of Gabriel's lips. Spreading his big hands wide, he said, "Funny how it's worked out. Though I imagine neither of you are laughing." He turned back to Aziraphale. "We thought taking away your memories would be a good punishment. But she—" he spared a glance upward "—was right. Of course she was. Giving them back, now _that's_ a good punish—"

"I'm off," Beelzebub said brusquely. She seemed not to hear Gabriel's squawk. "You're on your own, Crowley. Good riddance." She vanished.

Gabriel made a sound like gears grinding. He collected himself and spat, "What she said." And he, too, was gone.

The silence was complete. Nothing stirred inside the bookshop, and nothing—not even the sound of traffic—intruded from outside. Crowley cast a bleak look around. It was unsettling seeing this place, which had become a second home, appear to him now both old and new, familiar and strange at the same time. He spotted the unopened presents, the table with the morning's celebratory meal, the overturned mugs, the wine stains on the tablecloth. And Aziraphale, not an arm's length away, but effectively lost to him forever. Gritting his teeth and letting his eyes shutter with a sigh, he tried to trap inside himself all that had been good before Gabriel and Beelzebub had ruined it. He supposed he should go home. Aziraphale would not want him here. He should—

"We need to talk," Aziraphale said.

Crowley's eyes snapped open. The angel still stood with unusual rigidity and his expression was unreadable, but he was looking at Crowley, and he seemed to expect some kind of response. 

"Talk?" His voice broke.

"Yes." A thought flickered in Aziraphale's eyes, and he paused. "But first—they are gone? Truly?"

Pulling himself together long enough to extend his senses, Crowley painstakingly assessed their surroundings. "Yes."

Exhaling suddenly, Aziraphale gave himself a shake. It was so normal, Crowley's insides unfroze, giving him a fillip of hope. "Right, then, let's go."

"Where?" Crowley asked, slow to follow as the angel strode to the front of the shop and out onto the pavement. Aziraphale waited for him there, and yanked the door shut after them.

"Anywhere else."

There were few people out, and Crowley hazily remembered that it was still Christmas Day. The rain had stopped and the sun was shining, but its presence was weak, filtered by high thin clouds. The pavements were a putty grey, still wet from the earlier rain. It seemed hours had passed since he had entered the shop this morning; in fact, his watch said that no more than an hour had gone by.

Despite what he had said, Aziraphale strode along as if he had a destination in mind, heading rapidly ever south- and westward. It wasn't really unexpected when they entered St James's Park. Crowley slowed as Aziraphale did, and they passed through the gates together. Eventually, Aziraphale came to a halt in the middle of the Blue Bridge. He put his hands on the rail, his knuckles showing white with the intensity of his grip. Then he let go, putting his shoulders back, and straightened his spine. They were the only beings on the bridge. A pair of swans, silken white, glided toward them, ignored them after a single glance, and disappeared beneath the bridge.

"Aziraphale?" They were here, he assumed, because the angel wanted to end their friendship somewhere other than his bookshop, where they had spent so many hours together. He had prepared himself the whole way here, even as he had had to cope with old memories tumbling uneasily alongside the new. How he would live without him—

The angel cleared his throat. "Are you all right?"

"M—Me?" Crowley stuttered. "I—I only had to put up with 'Beez.'" He spoke the name caustically. "But you—"

"Gabriel can be a bit of a swine, yes," Aziraphale agreed, and he sounded so much like himself that Crowley found it strangely worrisome. 

An awkward silence fell between them, and Crowley feared it. Aziraphale said they needed to talk, and he knew of one subject that must be addressed before it could fester. "Aziraphale, what I did. Seducing—"

"You didn't." Aziraphale shot a fierce look his way. "You didn't seduce me. I was willing." He added under his breath, "I may not have been in my right mind at the time, but I was willing." Despite his words, a shadow of vulnerability was dark in his eyes.

"And—that's okay? You're not angry?" 

"Angry? I am _furious_!" He glared out over the water, his entire body tense. "But not with you."

Venturing warily, Crowley said, "You _looked_ upset. With me. When—when Gabriel restored your memories."

Aziraphale mimed dismissal. "I might have played it up a bit."

"'Played it up a bit!'" Crowley echoed. "What does that mean?"

"It was important that Gabriel believe that I was devastated. Nothing less would have appeased him. And of course I was upset. Am." He seemed to register the confusion on Crowley's face. "We've known each other for over six thousand years, Crowley, yet in all that time we never—" His voice trailed off and he inhaled shakily.

Crowley swallowed. After a long moment of silence, he admitted, "I used to think about it." He raised his shoulders in a vaguely apologetic shrug. "Quite a lot, actually."

Aziraphale frowned. "You never said."

Not ready to meet the angel's searching gaze, Crowley shifted so that he, too, was facing out over the lake. Small swirls of mist rose on the icy breeze, and he realized how very cold it was standing here. "And if I had?"

At first, Aziraphale said nothing. And then, more softly than a whisper, "You were always braver than I."

Crowley's heart seemed to restart. His mind was awash with too many memories, all clamoring for his attention at the same time. He expected the same was true of Aziraphale. He _had_ thought about it, so many times, their being together. Aziraphale in his arms, his mouth on Aziraphale's lips, the angel's body responding to his touch. And his recent memories showed him that the doing had been even more wonderful than the imagining. He had hoped that they had been moving in that direction after the End Time. But then—

Aziraphale was speaking. "To be fair, I thought about it, too. In fact, I suspected that we had already—" But he caught himself and closed his mouth.

"What?" A nearby pigeon startled into the air. Crowley lowered his voice. "You suspected what?"

"We've talked about it," Aziraphale reminded him. "Recently. That we might have known each other before we met here that day in November; that it might even have been the reason that our memories were not right." His cheeks were reddening. "But I also thought, possibly, that we not only knew each other before—" he faltered. "—but that we were more than friends as well."

The breeze died and in its absence the air was so still Crowley could smell Aziraphale's cologne. There was even a hint of cinnamon and mixed spice, absorbed by his hair or clothing from the morning's bake. _Him._ "Why would you think that?" 

Tentatively, Aziraphale replied, "Because my door unlocked itself any time you came near—I had to have impelled it to do that. Because I trusted you from the start—you, a demon! The first time I saw your car—"

"Not that," Crowley interrupted. "What you said about us being more than friends."

Abashed, Aziraphale cast a look up at him from under his lashes. "You remembered my counterpane." He glanced away, shaking his head at himself. "I couldn't know that you were in the habit of napping in my bed while I slaved away downstairs."

He'd always hung around the bookshop, and every so often he had been hustled into the backroom to get himself out from underfoot. Eventually, after whinging about his aching back, Aziraphale had encouraged him to go upstairs. "More comfortable than sleeping on your dodgy old sofa," Crowley acknowledged with a reminiscent grin. "Were you ever—?" He caught himself. "Uh—"

"Go on."

Crowley pulled a face. It was probably the wrong time to ask, but Aziraphale was waiting. He forged on, "Were you ever tempted to join me?"

The angel looked down at his waistcoat, pulled it into line, and then moved on to tidying his bow tie. "You're a demon," he said, as if that explained everything. "Of course I was."

Suddenly afraid that he had said exactly the wrong thing, Crowley said quickly, almost stumbling over the words, "We can go back to the way it was. We can just be friends."

Aziraphale's head came up, and he studied Crowley for a seemingly long time. "We could." His closed expression gave away nothing of what he was thinking or feeling. "Is that what you want?"

"No!" Crowley's insides felt as though they were caught in a vise. Panic licked at the edges of his mind. "No," he repeated. He said plaintively, "I love you. That hasn't changed."

Aziraphale let out a long breath. He reached out, but seemed to consider their surroundings and dropped his hand. Still, he looked relieved and his eyes were glinting. "In that case, no. We can't." He started to say something more, but Crowley scooped him into his arms and kissed him. Aziraphale did not resist; in fact, he molded himself against Crowley's lank frame, a hand at the back of Crowley's head, fingers in his hair, the other clutching his shoulder.

A few feet away, a woman with a small dog, both wearing red sweaters with blinking baubles, stumped by. She muttered, "Get a room."

Crowley felt Aziraphale's fingers twitch. Almost upon the instant, the woman yelped. They broke apart to see her detaching the dog's teeth from her ankle. "I didn't do that," Crowley said in a shocked undertone, watching her hobble along, the dog as bewildered as she was stunned.

"I know." With some chagrin Aziraphale muttered, "But she's right." And, then, wonderingly, "You stopped time for me."

Crowley's cheeks warmed. "Didn't have a choice, did I."

Aziraphale brushed his knuckles against Crowley's cheek. "You must know I love you, too, Crowley." There were more people now, families with small children, teenagers curled up inside their jackets, single people talking into their phones. Pulling him tighter and ignoring everyone around them, Crowley kissed him again. With Aziraphale in his arms, warm and willing, the last of the terror drained out of him, and the world seemed to right itself. As if from far away, there came catcalls and a smattering of applause. Aziraphale stirred and Crowley put a half step between them. "I'm counting on it," he mumbled into the angel's hair.

His face flaming, Aziraphale took his hand and together they walked off the bridge. Eventually, he spoke, and his voice was quietly musing. "Do you realize what this means?"

"This?" Crowley prompted.

"We're exiles. Unless the Almighty changes her mind, we are on our own."

Crowley made an inelegant noise. "Until _they_ decide to come after us again, you mean. They'll nag at her until she agrees to something, just to get rid of them."

"I think—I hope—you're wrong about that."

He gripped their fingers closer together. "Why?"

"I believe that she _wanted_ us to have our memories back. In fact, I think she's the reason we met. Again, that is."

Crowley lifted a brow, his skepticism apparent.

"You heard Beelzebub. She—the Lord, I mean—okayed our memories being tampered with, but not their destruction. And, as a further 'punishment,' she had them restored. Do you feel punished?"

"Nah. I'm really happy to have them all back, all together."

"It must have been the Almighty—the reason we came here on the same day, at the same time, to the same railing, to feed the ducks. You were the _only_ reason I ever fed the ducks."

"Me too," Crowley admitted. "But if it _was_ her, it was probably because she was just bored that day and wanted to see what would happen."

Aziraphale sniffed. "Very likely." Neither of them had any illusions that the Almighty cared about them in particular. "She must have known—she is the Lord—what would happen when we remembered each other again. And, if that's true, it does rather put everyone else on the back foot, doesn't it? Allowing an angel and a demon to become friends. To work together." He gave Crowley a fey smile. "To fall in love. For that matter, look at Beelzebub and Gabriel—they're working together now, too."

A slow, wicked grin formed on Crowley's lips. "Lord Beelzebub detests him."

"Who wouldn't?" Aziraphale chuckled under his breath. "But still—I can't imagine it's anything but a game to the Almighty," he said realistically.

"Then let's just hope she's done playing with us." Crowley's words came from his heart. "And if they want to come after us again, maybe she'll tell them to bugger off."

* * *

They lay together in Aziraphale's bed, their skin cooling, heart rates slowing. Crowley's head rested in the crook of Aziraphale's shoulder, his mouth against his throat—he would never get enough of the angel's unique taste. Aziraphale's hand was on Crowley's head, stroking his hair. 

On the journey back from the park, they had talked about moments in their shared past—simply because they could. They had so many more of those memories compared to the new ones they had created, that it was proving to be an adjustment weaving them all together. Once inside the shop, Crowley had led a compliant Aziraphale up the stairs and into his bed, where he had made slow, achingly tender love to him. He had wanted, in his own way, to eradicate a memory—that of the Archangel, and his casual cruelty. If Aziraphale's passionate response was any indication, he had succeeded.

"I think—" Aziraphale moved indolently. "—that I am quite ravenous."

"Will everything reheat?" Crowley asked, his hands busy beneath the sheets. He took Aziraphale's earlobe between his lips. "Or would you rather go out?"

Aziraphale freed his ear, shivering. "If it's all the same to you, I'd rather stay here."

"Here here?" Crowley turned his mouth to Aziraphale's collarbone, his hands beginning to wreak havoc elsewhere. "Or here, in the shop?"

Moaning helplessly, Aziraphale managed to say, "I think we can do both." He gasped as Crowley applied his lips to a nipple. "Though not, perhaps, at the same time."

Some while later, they sat side by side at the head of the bed, pillows at their backs. Aziraphale had conceded that they could stay "here here," if they kept their hands to themselves. For a little while, anyway. The plate of warmed breads was nestled in the folds of the counterpane between them. They were sipping freshly made mulled wine; the earlier batch Aziraphale had deemed undrinkable. While he had sliced satsumas and added spices to the pot, Crowley had freshened the mugs and removed wine stains from the tablecloth. Aziraphale had thanked him with a kiss.

Wrapping paper lay in a crumpled heap in Crowley's lap. He had opened his gift—a book, of course—and was taking his time leafing through the pages of the most recent collection of astronomy photos Aziraphale could find. "I've met this chap a few times, the author. Does good work." He could feel Aziraphale watching him and turned his head for a kiss. "Thanks, angel. It's nice that my hard work is still appreciated. Go on, open yours."

Aziraphale set his mug on the bedside table before picking up the package covered in silver paper and tied with a tartan bow. While he loosened the ribbon and began to peel back the wrapping, Crowley let his head fall onto Aziraphale's shoulder. He knew that the angel would like the chocolates; he had liked them before. The other item, however—

"Hmm." As the name on the box was revealed, Aziraphale said, "Very nice." He pried open the lid and winkled out a piece of dark chocolate in the shape of a heart. "I do love these." He slid it into his mouth, savored it, then voluptuously murmured his approval. He offered the box to Crowley and something fell off the bottom onto the wrapping paper.

It was a large envelope with Aziraphale's name on it. He studied Crowley's face, looking for clues as he worked his thumb under the flap. Crowley waited, chocolate melting on his tongue and saying nothing. Aziraphale drew out the single sheet of paper and unfolded it, scanning it swiftly. His smile lit his whole face. "Oh, very much, yes." He turned and kissed Crowley's nose and then his mouth. They both tasted of chocolate. Aziraphale said in a hushed tone, "Thank you, Crowley." Nuzzling his cheek, he went on, "I would very much like to return to Cornwall for the New Year." His eyes kindled. "Cornish fairings!"

Crowley laughed. "Eden, too, if you like."

"We could visit the Mediterranean this time." Aziraphale set the box onto the side table along with the plate of breads, and took the mug from Crowley's hand. He started at Crowley's ear, small bite-kisses that made his nerve endings zing. Before long, his mouth was on his throat. His hair tickled Crowley's chin, the maddening kind of tickle that required a specific kind of relief.

"Whatever you want, angel." Crowley sighed. He let himself float on the miracle of Aziraphale's touch, all too aware of the impossibility of their being together again, and how close they had come to losing everything. Now that his memories were back, he knew how much—how often—he had dreamed of this, of Aziraphale in his arms, holding him, anchoring him.

"Love you, angel," he murmured reverently.

Crowley could feel Aziraphale's smile against his skin. "Love you, too, demon." 

Nothing else mattered.

END

**Author's Note:**

> Arithmetic of Memory— _Hamlet_ , Act Five, Scene Two: (Hamlet to Osric, who has been singing Laertes's praises): "I know to divide him inventorially would dizzy th' arithmetic of memory … " Some scholars believe this alludes to the methods used by intellectuals of the day to access their vast reservoirs of knowledge (viz., memory palaces). If nothing else, it speaks to the fact that memory can be compromised in a multitude of ways and for a multitude of reasons.
> 
> Jeremy Bentham— _Offences Against One's Self: Pederasty_ was written around 1785, but not published until 1978. He left his body to his physician for dissection in the hope of being preserved as an "Auto-Icon," which would then go on display for generations to observe and admire. The work on the head was botched, so it was kept separately, but near the body, until it was indeed taken for ransom by students in the middle '70s. The head is now kept under lock in the College Collection. Fun fact: The Auto-Icon was moved in early 2020 from the South Cloisters of Wilkins Building in University College London off Gower Street to the Student Centre on Gordon Square, and resides there in a new glass case, from which the great philosopher can watch the academic community go by. 
> 
> CD Jewel Cases—If Aziraphale had never known Crowley, he would likely never have dealt with CDs or the jewel cases they come in. Hence, his first, unremembered experience might have presented a challenge to him.
> 
> And the tiny blue flowers edging Aziraphale's counterpane? Forget-me-nots, of course.


End file.
